A Yorkshire Summer
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: It's the summer of 1927 in Yorkshire! Expect loads of love, sweetness, multiple pairings, and lots of drama! EDITED AND UPDATED AGAIN: This started as a Chelsie/Baxley fic and has greatly expanded. And while there's lots of happy scenes, there's some angst. Expect lots of Richobel and LOTS of Thomas/OC, with lots of other downstairs folks mixed in and a happy ending for everyone!
1. Early Rain

**Early June, 1927 – The Carsons' Cottage**

Elsie awoke to the muted but heavy litany of rain on the cottage's roof tiles. She listened to the thrum of it for a few moments, like faraway chanting. The staccato of raindrops creating an early morning duet with the deep, peaceful breathing of her slumbering husband beside her. After a few moments, she rolled towards the window, where the faintest grey light was hovering. The deluge was fierce, slapping against the pane, demanding her attention. Getting around today would be messy and sodden.

And still, she grinned. Despite the weather, in the face of the weather, today was a special day.

"Not the nicest day for a wedding, is it?" Charlie's voice rumbled from behind her, his arm pulling her back into the fold of his warm torso.

"Nae, that's an understatement, to say the least," she smiled, pressing herself against the waiting, familiar topography of his torso and limbs. She'd have to get up, and soon, but a few minutes wouldn't make much difference, not in the grand scheme of things. "But they'll manage, _we'll_ all pitch in, help them manage. I've rarely seen a pair so pleased with each other; they've been acting like green ones and making cow's eyes at each other every time I see them together."

Elsie thought of the couple getting married today, and her grin broadened. One of the traits that had always recommended Mr. Molesley to others was his boyish enthusiasm (which had been an obstacle to success for him in the past, in her humble opinion, on more than one occasion), but his delight in Miss Baxter, as the woman who would be his bride and wife, was rather charming to see.

"Sometimes, it feels as if the whole bloody staff, past and present, are wedding each other this year," he breathed into her hair, the words tart but the tone gentle. "And this is the one to start us all off."

She towards him, really laughing now. "There's at least a handful of wise phrases that apply to that particular observation, Mr. Carson, but I suppose the two most _apropos_ would be 'Do as I say, not as I do,' and the proverbial pot discussing the kettle…"

His face looked thunderous and she pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle her mirth.

"You and I are different, Elsie," he replied, his forehead creasing. "Our situation, our…arrangement. Now everyone who's ever worked at Downton feels the need to marry, and, it seems, all at once."

"I daresay we are, Charlie, but not the way you mean," she brushed the tips of her fingers over the short bristles on his cheeks. "You'll never hear me complain about how my life turned out, Mr. Carson, not a bit, as it's all quite satisfactory to me, especially in this moment. I am as content, as they say, as a pig in mud. But Charlie…while it worked out in the end, things might have easily not, I think. _This_ might never have happened, but for a few rather large omissions on my part, and a few brave schemes on your part. We got lucky, that's what happened, that's all."

"What's this all about?" He propped himself up, genuinely concerned. She sat up at well, crossing her legs under her nightgown, watching the rain fall in heavy sheets outside. "Elsie? I was mostly teasing, you know…I wasn't trying to be insensitive." He sighed and cleared his throat. She heard him pause. "I am just grateful to be here, now, love. Where we were meant to be."

"As am I, ye old booby, that's what I'm trying to say to you," she turned back and leaned into him. The tears she'd felt pushing at her throat were gone; she could feel them retreating, though her heart still felt tender. "You and I, Charlie, could have been _here_ much sooner, had we been of a slightly different generation, like Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley, or the Bates. Unless you're trying to tell me ye've not loved me all that long, Mr. Carson?" Now her voice sounded like itself, and she grinned, tucked in the crook of his arm, looking sideways up at him.

"Was there ever a time that I didn't love you?" He leaned over and kissed her thoroughly, and she made a move to speak. "If so, I don't suppose it's even worth talking about, is it?" He pressed his thumb against her lips, and she sighed. She took his hand in hers, and pressed her cheek against it.

"Are you regretful, then, that it took us so long to get here?" His forehead crinkled in that dear way that he had.

"Aye…sometimes. But there's no one to blame, or, I suppose, _everyone_ to blame. 'Twas the world we grew up in, the world we worked in…and the world that brought us to each other, in the first place. I cannot regret _that._ But I'd be lying, if I don't look at this younger generation now, the rules…more flexible…than they were for us."

"You know how _I_ feel about that flexibility," he replied.

"I know the changing world sets your teeth on edge, Charlie. But I can't say I'm not glad that people can find each other, make each other happy – and not have to choose between making a living and living their lives, completely," she shrugged. The tears were back. She was getting soft, maybe, as she got older.

"Well, you've convinced me, then," he brushed her tears away, unwound her slim braid. "And I think, Mrs. Carson, before we brave all that Mother Nature is doling out, we'd best make up for lost time.

"I couldn't agree more," she laughed and pulled him down into the warm and waiting sheets.


	2. What Follows Love

**Chapter 2 – What Follows Love**

 **A/N: YOU. GUYS. ARE. AWESOME. Thank you all for your reviews and support here and on Tumblr. This story is definitely something a little different for me, and it'll have numerous perspectives. I hope you continue to enjoy it. ALSO. I am going to get better at responding to reviews. I've been very lax and there's no excuse!**

 **A shout out to my guest reviewers, who I cannot thank directly. Your comments are SO appreciated.**

 **~CeeCee**

 **Yew Tree Farm, Later That Morning**

The rain lashed against the windows of the cozy farmhouse, proclaiming to all it would be best to stay inside and not attempt anything extravagant today, if anything at all.

Phyllis just grinned at it and sipped her tea.

"You're not bothered by the weather, then, Miss Baxter?" Daisy turned from the stove, where she was frying up an enormous breakfast. Phyllis was hungry, and the food smelled wonderful. The younger woman was grinning at her. "I think I might fall apart if it's like this on my wedding day – our wedding day – me and Andy's, that is," Daisy continued, as if she needed the clarification. Phyllis and Joe weren't the only ones getting married this summer.

"No, you wouldn't, you'd muddle through and be happy as can be, since a wedding isn't a'tall about the weather, is it?" Beryl Mason entered the room, followed by Elsie Hughes and Anna Bates, the latter two spattered with raindrops.

"Miss Baxter! Good morning! How are you, then? Hanging in?" Downton's housekeeper smiled at her and set several parcels on the sideboard, removing her coat.

"I am quite well, Mrs. Hughes. The Masons have been so kind, allowing me to spend my last unmarried night in their lovely home," she felt a thrill low in her belly. _This was it. Today, she'd become Joseph Molesley's wife._

Elsie exchanged a glance with Anna, then both women grinned.

"And I see you're hardly bothered by the rain, Miss Baxter," Anna observed. "I'm glad of it, though it might prove a touch more challenging that I expected to sort your hair and headpiece. No matter what, a bride should look her best." Anna grinned, all the while her eyes moving quickly, calculating styling changes and adjustments.

"I don't mind the rain, not at all, Mrs. Bates," she replied, smiling out the window again.

"You don't look like you mind much at all, Miss Baxter, as it should be," Elsie Hughes responded dryly, with a grin at the other women. "However, as I agree with Anna and because you, Miss Baxter, were so elemental in ensuring _I_ looked my best on _my_ wedding day, I've send Mr. Carson along to sort out a car from Downton to bring you over to the church, then to the schoolhouse, lest you drown before you clap eyes on Mr. Molesley."

"And now, we'll all sit for breakfast, shall we?" Beryl Mason interjected and they all complied, Daisy laying platters of eggs and rashers and grilled tomatoes and mushrooms on the worn wooden planks of the table.

Phyllis dug into the simple breakfast with enthusiasm, deeply contented in her heart. She looked around at the women gathered at this farmhouse table, and was grateful. Grateful that life had not only given her Joseph Molesley, but them as well, these coworkers who had become friends and, without her really noticing until just now, family.

oooOOOooo

The car from the big house where they all worked pulled up to the door of the church with Phyllis, Anna and Daisy inside. She wasn't nervous at all, she didn't think, though she was aware of every sensation around her, more than usual: the smooth lightweight fabric of her rose-colored wedding dress, which, of course, she had sewn herself, pressing against her as if always belonged there; the wet air through the car's open window, heavy with the smell of cut grass and flowers; the sound of the rain, now lighter, the sound of fingertips against the windshield.

"Are you ready, Miss Baxter?" Daisy looked over at her, all large blue eyes and rosy cheeks.

"Indeed, I am, Daisy," she grinned. She'd never been more ready for anything, really.

"One moment, Miss Baxter," Anna Bates leaned over, smoothed the beautiful beaded modern headpiece she's presented to Phyllis a few hours earlier across her hair. The women had locked eyes and shared a secret smile once Phyllis noticed the two pearl-grey feathers on the side of the band.

"Hello, ladies," Thomas Barrow opened the car door at it came to a stop, looking very well in a buff-colored morning suit. His face was that of a man healing after numerous injuries. He helped the other two women out of the car, then extended his hand to Phyllis.

She smiled up at him, and took it, standing. Thought of him as a wee lad, a beautiful boy who was interested in everything the world had to offer him.

"Thank you ladies, for standing with me today," she smiled at Anna and Daisy, as Mr. Bates appeared to take their light coats. They stood in the archway of the church's entrance, protecting their dresses from the waning rain. They each reached out and squeezed Phyllis' hand, all of them with tears in their eyes.

"I certainly hope someone is standin' by Mr. Molesley inside," Daisy abruptly said, a grin crooking her mouth. "Or he's bound to tumble over the altar when he claps eyes on you, Miss Baxter."

The women started giggling, and even Thomas' face was twitching with repressed mirth. "Never fear, Daisy, Andy and Mr. Bate'll prop him up, as needed."

"They're ready for you, Miss Baxter, if you're ready for them," Mrs. Hughes appeared in the doorway, a wry grin on her face. "You look quite lovely, as every bride does and should, according to Mrs. Mason. I'll see you inside." And, to her surprise, the older woman placed a brief kiss on her cheek before disappearing into the church.

As Anna and Daisy walked before them, she turned to Thomas, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow, for escorting me down the aisle," her throat nearly closed around the words.

"My pleasure, Miss Baxter, though I am nearly certain you could have done this on your own, strong, independent woman that you are," his words were flippant, but his eyes were soft.

"Perhaps, Mr. Barrow, but I rather like the company," she replied, and squeezed his arm a little, took a deep breath. "Thank you, Thomas. I mean it." She stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek.

As they walked into the church, Phyllis was certain she saw Downton's butler blinking back tears.

oooOOOooo

It was funny, this.

This feeling of arriving, of being filled, completely. The minute she saw Joe standing there, she locked eyes with him, and everything else and everyone else fell away. She took his hand, said all of the correct words and phrases at the right time, but there was really nothing beyond his gaze.

Beyond the way he looked at her. As if she were a gift he'd been given, and he didn't quite believe it.

She had been infatuated before, oh, most certainly. She had cared for men, and they her. She had also been manipulated and twisted and used, then discarded.

What she couldn't have imagined was her own value, to herself, and to this man gazing down on her. That love wasn't a destination, no, but rather a thing unspooling, continuously, tying them together.


	3. Grey Clouds & Bluer Skies

**Chapter 3 – Grey Clouds & Bluer Skies**

Isobel Grey looked around the modest school house, which had been, once again, transformed into a place fit for a celebration. It had been only a few short years since they'd been here to celebrate the Carsons, but her life had, once again, taken several unanticipated turns. Uncertainty, it seemed, was the only thing one could be certain about.

She considered the happy, mingling crowd, wondering where the best place for her would be. Regretfully, Violet Crawley had only stayed for the church service; as her friend often reminded all who would listen, she wasn't getting any younger. However, they had sat together, waiting for the ceremony to start, chatting together in hushed voices, their head inclined towards each other.

 _"I'll not have to plan a single social event this summer if the staff keeps marrying each other," Violet intoned, feigning an air of innocence._

 _"I think it's rather progressive, don't you?" She retorted. She suddenly felt more like herself than she had in months. Violet was good for that, and she deeply appreciated it, though it would embarrass both of them if she said it out loud. Still, it was quite nice – and rather novel – to feel happy again. Even briefly._

 _"Do you think you ought to be here, Cousin Isobel?" The other woman seemed to understand what she was thinking._

 _"I do, in fact, believe I should be, Cousin Violet. Life does, and must, go on, until the end. And I am quite happy for Mr. Molesley. He's found his way, it seems, out of a life of service and boyish mishaps, by choosing his own path. I applaud him for it," she grinned at Violet, trying to ignore the heaviness on her chest, the loneliness that was always creeping in at the corners._

 _"How horribly democratic of you, Cousin Isobel," Violet had huffed, and then the music had begun, and Isobel had been, uncharacteristically, glad to be observing rather than leading, or speaking._

And now, looking around the beginnings of the reception, she wasn't quite sure where to take herself. She hated to admit it, and no one person made her feel this way, but as her grandson grew and the years stretched out between the present and Matthew's death, especially since Mary and Henry had gotten married, she felt a little…superfluous to the residents of the Abbey. Not unwanted, or uncared for, never; just not…needed. She really didn't belong there any longer, even if her sweet George would be the heir to it all someday.

She _had_ belonged somewhere, for a short while, with Dickie, as Lady Grey, and even if it wasn't exactly what she –

 _Stop it, now. Dwelling will not change things, nor will feeling sorry about things that cannot be changed. Lady Grey or not, I think I'd like to find Mrs. Hughes, and Mr. Carson. Sit with them._

With a destination in mind, she felt less rudderless, less lost. The grief and regret and loneliness could be pushed aside for a moment or two, at least. She searched the room and her eyes found Elsie Hughes, who was standing with her husband, laughing up at him. Isobel caught her eye and smiled. The woman grinned at her and seemed to understand. She gestured for Isobel to join them.

She was headed towards the housekeeper and her husband when a voice to her left stopped her.

"Lady Grey. I'd not expected to see you here. You are looking well."

She turned to face Dr. Richard Clarkson and attempted to compose herself. She had wondered if he would attend, but she should have known better. _Of course_ he would be here. And now, when confronted with his presence, her stomach was a snarl of anger and sadness and frustration.

She could not forget that this man had been her friend, and a good one at that, for a decade and a half. She knew he had, at some point during that friendship, harbored feelings that were deeper, more hopeful, than that. She knew, despite the fact that she had been blessed with two very different, but very happy marriages, he was the man of her acquaintance who respected her the most.

She also knew that she could not look at him without thinking of the death of her second husband.

"And yet, here I am, Dr. Clarkson," she answered, and realized she was being rather abrupt. She was trying to get better at that. Dickie had gently, slowly, helped her with that during the nearly two years they'd been married. She may have learned it, eventually, had he been around long enough.

"What I meant to say, Dr. Clarkson, is that I wouldn't miss Mr. Molesley's wedding for anything," she made herself smile and was gratified when the doctor's face softened in response. "You may have forgotten, but Mr. Molesley was the very first person I met in Downton. I wish him all of the happiness he can make with his new bride."

"Ah, of course, he was your butler for a time. How could I have forgotten?"

"Well, as you are not the chronicler of my life, Dr. Clarkson, I don't think you've the responsibility to remember all of the finer and lesser-known details of it," she retorted, and, similarly to when she had been whispering with Violet Crawley, she began to feel more herself. She noticed Elsie Hughes looking their way, and nodded, even managed a smile.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, partially hidden under his moustache. "That's certainly faire, Lady Grey, and certainly puts me in my place."

"You misunderstand me, Doctor, but that does tend to happen with us, from time to time, at least. And let's dispense with that title, shall we, between us, at least? 'Lady Isobel' shall do just fine. Sometimes, that feels a bit too much, if I am completely honest about it," she _was_ being forthright; while she cared deeply for Dickie and was very contented being his wife, she never felt comfortable with her title.

"Lady Isobel, then, it will be," he paused, and when he spoke, his voice was as grave and quiet as she'd ever heard it. "I'll not mar this happy day with talk of death, especially not to you. But, Lady Isobel, I want you to know, not a day has gone by since it happened, that I've not wished I'd gotten there sooner, or it had been slightly less serious, or that there'd been signs…" he trailed off. "What I mean to say, is that I am glad to see you here, celebrating, today, Lady Isobel."

She let herself think, for a brief moment, how well her name sounded in his voice. Then she shook her head, and smiled. "On that note, Dr. Clarkson, I do believe I'd like some lunch, and some punch, in that order, if I might."

"I'll walk you over to Lady Mary's table," he proffered his arm, which she accepted with a split-second of hesitation.

"I'm not heading over there. I'm going to sit with Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, and whomever else they've determined worthy," she smiled, and it felt like the real thing. It had been a while.

"Well, I am happy to report they've deemed _me_ worthy, as well," he replied, and his smile broadened.

"So we're heading in the same direction, then, Dr. Clarkson," she answered.

"It would seem so, Lady Isobel," he retorted. "It was bound to happen, sooner or later."


	4. At the Hooley - Pt 1

**Chapter 4 – At the Hooley – Pt. 1**

 **A/N: So, first a GRAND "thank you" to you all. I love your reviews and having chats with you all about the story. And now for just a few notes and thoughts:**

 **A hooley is, by definition and origin, an Irish or Scottish evening of music and dance. And, of course, neither of our newlyweds are either of these. HOWEVER, in my epic Chelsie fic, "A History of Moments," Baxley quite enjoy the hooley that Elsie and Charlie throw. I'd like to think they'd consider one on their own wedding day. ;-)**

 **The other thing – I am quite enjoying the rotating POV so far. I'll be sticking mostly with Elsie, Phyllis and Isobel, possibly with Anna and Thomas (yes, breaking my ladies-only rule) thrown in here and there. Maybe Daisy, if I figure out how to write her "voice".**

Phyllis had to stop dancing for a moment.

She needed a breath, she needed a cold drink, and most of all, she needed a moment of quiet. Oh, she loved the music and laughter and happiness swirling around her, in her, but she wasn't used to such merriment, so much boisterous joy.

After she and Joe had danced a trio of dances together, they'd moved onto other partners, some more likely than others – Joe took a turn with Isobel Grey, who, for some reason, stayed for the rowdier part of the festivities while she danced a couple of tunes with Thomas. After an unknowable amount of time and a half-dozen amiable partners, she realized she'd misplaced her husband, already.

Her eyes darted across the dance floor and the chairs set on the edges of the room, to no avail. Well, he certainly hadn't left his own wedding, nor _her._ She had never been so sure of a person in her life, as she was of Joe Molesley. She fanned her warm cheeks and was surprised when a cold cup was pressed into her hand.

"Ye be needin' that, I bet, Miss Ba-I mean, Mrs. Molesley," Elsie Hughes appeared at her side, with a cup of punch.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, you're a mind reader," she took a gulp of the cold drink, the sweetness of her new title rolling over her, her eyes still searching, searching…

"Looking for the man himself, are ye?" Elsie Hughes grinned at her. "I believe he went out the back door, for a bit of fresh air, after all that dancing. I suppose _you_ could do with a bit of fresh air, no, Mrs. Molesley?" The older woman's eyes twinkled with mischief and mirth.

"I could, in fact," Phyllis grinned. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

"It's hard to stop paying attention to everything, even when I'm not at yonder grand house," she replied, not seeing her husband coming up behind her. Phyllis smiled at him.

"Then I'll do my best to distract you, given that we're at a celebration," Mr. Carson intoned, and his wife glanced wryly up at him.

"Are ye sayin' ye're taking me for a spin 'round the dance floor, then, Charlie?" Elsie Hughes grinned over at Phyllis who grinned back. The housekeeper and former butler seemed an unlikely pair to her, at times, and yet, somehow, exactly right together.

"You ought to, Mr. Carson," Phyllis interjected, surprising herself. "You know, the hooley at your own wedding is a favorite memory for me, and – and Mr. Molesley, as well." She remembered dancing with him, for so long that night, before either of them had begun consider what, exactly, was happening between them, but just so happy to be near him, touching him, laughing with him.

The former butler's face softened, and he looked down at his wife. "It's a favorite memory of _mine_ , as well, Mrs. Molesley, and I have a feeling this one will be as well," he finished, and Elsie squeezed Phyllis' arm as her husband shepherded her onto the dance floor.

"You best go take that breather, now, Mrs. Molesley," she grinned at her, then the pair of them were swept up in the music and the other dancing couples.

Phyllis took her half-full punch glass and and walked towards the rear entrance of the schoolhouse. She was in the doorway when she heard a very familiar voice. She looked to her right and saw Joe sitting on bench against the brick wall with a boy of about thirteen, one of his students. Her husband, in his shirtsleeves, rolled up above the elbows, had his hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy had a hangdog look on his face.

"...'tis not the end of the world, though it may seem like it right at this moment, Fred," Joe was saying, a small smile on his mouth. Neither he nor the boy notice her in the doorway, and she moved back a little; she didn't want to embarrass either of them.

"Rather felt like it, Mr. Molesley, when I found the pair of 'em snogging out here, though," Fred's voice lamented, in the way only the very young and very disappointed can. "I feel like a bit of a prat, I do. 'Twas no secret I fancied her, but I thought she fancied _me_ too." The boy heaved a great sigh, and though she couldn't see him, she pictured Joe trying to hold back laughter, which would certainly be misinterpreted by the lovelorn lad.

"Well, I can't stop you from feeling that way, Fred, but you oughtn't do. It's hard to sort these things out, it is, and you're just starting with all of it, lad," Joe replied, and his voice was easy and light, trying to take the burden of embarrassment from the boy. "I can't tell you that you'll never make a mistake about a girl again, because it's likely not true, and I'd not lie to you. But I can say this, whether it's five years from now or twenty, when you meet the right one, you'll know."

"Like you and Mrs. Molesley, I suppose," the boy conceded. "It took you closer to the twenty years, then?" The child's voice was so earnest in its inadvertent insult, Phyllis clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles, nearly spilling her punch.

Joe didn't bother hiding his mirth. He burst out laughing. "Yes, Fred, twenty years and then some. And even after I met the lady in question, it took a few more years to get it all settled. But it worked out in the end, as you can see."

"I guess you're right, Mr. Molesley," Fred sighed.

"I am, at that, Fred," her husband replied, and their voices sounded closer. "I suggest you get yourself inside, lad, grab a slice of cake and enjoy the music. Sometimes, the right person comes along when you least expect it, or when you're busy enjoying other things."

Before the poor boy could come crashing into her, she intentionally walked through the doorway and down the three steps louder than she usually would, to alert them to her presence.

"Hello there," she smiled at Fred, caught Joe's eye. He winked at her over the boy's head. "You're Fred, aren't you? Mr. Molesley tells me you're top in maths."

"Hello, Mrs. Molesley," Fred replied, turning the color of a boiled beet. "Thank you, yes."

"You know, Fred, there's cake, and ice cream inside. The others are swarming the tables, you'll not want to miss out," she smiled gently at him, feigned an air of complete innocence. The boy looked from her to Joe, and back again, then mumbling something friendly and unintelligible, headed back inside.

"How much of that did you hear, then?" Joe grinned at her, pulling her towards him.

"Most of it, I think. Well, the important parts," she grinned up at him, relishing his warm, sweaty body pressed against hers, the faint smell of his shaving lotion. The rain had finally stopped, but the early evening air was thick and heavy. "You were very kind and thoughtful, Joe, when the boy must have been very embarrassed – and rather sad, too, I expect."

"It's a universal feeling, don't you think? Heartbreak?"

"I suppose it is, at that, though not something I thought I'd be discussing on my wedding day," she laughed, stroked his cheek

He grinned, turned his face to kiss her palm. "But I think it made Fred feel less alone, to know we've all, or most of us, have been through it," he gazed down at her, his face filled with love and lust and passion in equal measure, and certain, tingling parts of her reached ahead, to when evening had truly fallen, in the little house that had been his and was now theirs.

"You're right, of course," she said. "And even more…it's all the sweeter when you're heart's repaired. When you find the person to help you repair it."

"I've never been this happy," he said at last.

"Me either," she answered, pulled his face towards hers, and kissed him, her punch glass tumbling to the damp grass. It started to rain again, a little. Neither of them noticed.


	5. At the Hooley - Pt 2

**Chapter 4 – At the Hooley - Pt. 2**

 **A/N: Though there's nothing like Beryl/Elsie when it comes to friendship, I think Isobel and Elsie would have been friends, really, truly, friends, but for the disparity in their statuses in society (which kept growing more and more disparate as they years passed) – I think that's why they ARE friends in so much AU fics with modern settings. Canon showed us these two certainly _understood_ each other, because they both reached beyond their stratified society, and, ultimately, enjoyed mutual respect and admiration. Feminists and democrats, at a time neither were really embraced. Or, were just beginning to be. **

**NB: I shuffled my POV order for these chapters. Chelsie folks, don't fret; they're coming up next.**

 **~CeeCee**

Isobel was enjoying herself far too much at the hooley. She knew, _knew_ she shouldn't even be here; she should have taken Mary and Henry up on their offer to stay at Downton, or, alternatively, had her own driver bring her home - hours ago.

She simply didn't feel like going to Downton, not on this particular night, and try to ignore the truth: George was a spit of Matthew at his age, but he'd be raised by a dark-haired, kind stepfather, the only father he'd ever really know.

She simply didn't feel like going home, when "home" meant a grand house she'd only lived in for a year-and-a-half, where the most familiar sights, smells and sounds reminded her of Dickie, whom she currently wasn't properly mourning, a mere three months after his death.

She simply wanted to enjoy herself, and not worry who she was offending, what rules she was breaking, who she should or did miss, or exactly what pieces of her battered heart ached the most.

So she did.

Instead of sitting with the Crawleys for the wedding meal, she'd sat with the Carsons, the Masons, the elder Mr. Molesley, the Bateses and Dr. Clarkson. The conversation at their table had been sharp and lively and far more relaxed than if she'd sat with her family. She laughed far more, as well.

Part of her, a part she was attempting to ignore, was very glad that, while the doctor had escorted her over to the table, he'd not sat next to her. Another, equal part of her was rather glad of his presence across from her, adding banter she knew was intended intentionally to draw her out and into the conversation.

And when the tables had been rolled away and the dance floor cleared, she'd gladly accepted a dance with her old butler, who was so thoroughly, completely contented, it was hard for his high spirits to not rub off on her, at least a little. She danced her way through a handful of obliging partners, noticing that people very quickly became used to her presence, the Lady among them.

She nearly laughed. She was far more comfortable with the modest, middle-class living which had made up the majority of her life than she was with any of this Baroness nonsense. She'd cleared the floor when she sensed, rather than saw, that Dr. Clarkson might attempt to become her next dance partner.

She was enjoying herself, really enjoying herself, for the first time in months, and she wasn't ready or able to sort out how she felt about Dr. Richard Clarkson, which, despite their long acquaintance and mutual respect and admiration for each other, seemed fraught with missteps, hurt feelings and terrible timing. She didn't want this day to be added to that list.

She saw Downton's housekeeper standing on her own, slightly away from the crowd, a soft look on her face, watching her husband dancing with Daisy Mason. And, sure enough, Isobel also saw Dr. Clarkson on the dance floor now, just as she retreated from it. He caught her looking, gave her a smile between amused and regretful, nodded, before turning his attention to his partner.

"Lady Isobel," Elsie greeted her, grinning. "It's nice to see you enjoying yourself."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carson," Isobel replied. Just as this woman knew, without being prompted, the best way to address _her_ , Isobel felt she was up to the task of calling her by her married surname whilst away from Downton. "I _am_ enjoying myself, much to the chagrin of my family, I am sure."

"The Granthams have weathered worse scandals than a family member enjoying hooley," Elsie's eyes were bright with barely-repressed mirth. "And what they don't witness, won't trouble them."

"I received the archest of arched eyebrows from Mary earlier, I can tell you, Mrs. Carson," she replied, also trying to hold back laughter. It was a good feeling, that. "Though she saved the other one for Tom Branson." The man in question was tearing up the floor with that sharp, blond editor of Edith's, Miss Edmunds, the one everyone in the village assumed he'd marry, eventually, though neither of them seemed in a particular rush to do so.

Now Elsie did laugh. "Well, Lady Isobel, you and Mr. Branson are well-versed in the workings of diplomacy as pertains to everyone at Downton, particularly Lady Mary."

"The same could be said about you, Mrs. Carson," Isobel retorted, and the women grinned at each other.

"Well, I am married to one of her greatest admirers, so it's rather a necessity," Elsie replied drying, grinning at her whirling husband on the dance floor.

"You and Mr. Carson just celebrated your two year wedding anniversary, isn't that right?" Isobel asked, really looking the other woman. They were roughly the same age, with very similar sensibilities. Yet, the vagaries of life and social status had spun each of their lives into very different shapes.

"That we did, Lady Isobel," Elsie glanced over at her, then her eyes returned to following her husband's course around the dance floor. "And no other two years of my life passed so quickly or so happily, I can safely say." There was a deep, simple affection in her voice that made Isobel think of how she had loved Reg. The Carsons may have married two years ago, but they'd loved each other far longer than that.

The contented look on Elsie Carson's face suddenly disappeared, as if slapped off. She seemed to be collecting herself. "M'lady, I apologize. I should have thought before I spoke so thoughtlessly. I'd forgotten that you and Lord Merton were married as well that year."

"Mrs. Carson, I implore you not to fret, as it's neither your inclination, nor at all necessary," Isobel paused, then decided to push on.

Sometimes, she searched in her life for a compatriot, a friend whom she could meet will all of her thoughts. She dearly loved Violet Crawley, but their lives up until the point they met were so vastly different, they'd never quite see eye-to-eye on certain things, nor entirely understand each other, though their affection for each other endeavored both of them to attempt it.

Her appreciation for Elsie Hughes was of a shallower nature, but Isobel couldn't deny that she saw the woman as a natural kindred spirit, who understood her own way of looking at the world, as it was so similar to her own. It was easy to continue, in that respect.

"As you say, Mrs. Carson, you and I married at roughly the same time a few years ago, but I do believe our marriages were of a different nature. You see, Lord Merton and I were rather newly acquainted, in the grand scheme of things, even when we married. It was new love, I suppose, Mrs. Carson, should we look at it that way. We were still sorting each other out, you see, getting to know each other, really know each other. As opposed to you and Mr. Carson, who've known each other a rather long time," Isobel finished, thinking on Dickie. How she had cared for him, and cherished the way he was devoted to her. Had it been love, as she had loved Reg, as perhaps she _could_ love another man, even now? She thought not. Did it matter? She still wasn't entirely sure.

"I'd be a fool, Lady Isobel, to assume I've got Mr. Carson entirely sorted out," Elsie laughed. Her husband was making his way towards them. "I'm not certain I ever will, no matter how many years we're married."

"Lady Grey," Charles Carson dipped his head at her, and she grinned at his wife. "Elsie, I do believe we ought to be on our way, don't you agree?"

"Well, ye've danced yourself into exhaustion, so I suppose so," his wife replied. "Don't ye be collapsin' on the way home, now, as there'll be naught I can do if you do. Good night, Lady Isobel. I am glad you stayed for the hooley, after all," she put out her hand, and Isobel shook it, slightly regretful to end her conversation with the woman, the honesty of it.

It was time for her to leave, she supposed. Her driver was likely quite put out with her by now. She'd give him the day off tomorrow, with pay. That ought to please him. She caught Richard Clarkson's eye as he took a long drink from a glass of beer, wiping his sweaty brow. He'd removed his suit jacket and vest, and she could be honest with herself – she liked the look of the town doctor. She also understood it didn't have to mean anything, or more than that. He was heading towards her.

"This may be a foolish question, Lady Isobel, but I don't suppose you'd care for a dance?"

She ignored the rise and fall in her stomach.

"It's not a foolish question, Dr. Clarkson. However, I do believe it's time for me to go home."

"Certainly," he replied, and nothing in his manner indicated regret or irritation or otherwise at her response. "You've a driver waiting, do you not?" She nodded, and he dragged his shirtsleeve across his forehead, wiping his brow again.

"I was contemplating giving him the day off tomorrow to make up for cooling his heels an additional few hours, waiting for me," she said to him. To her surprise, he burst out laughing.

"Ever the democrat, 'Lady' or no," he smiled at her, shaking his head. "I can't say I know anyone else quite like you, Lady Isobel."

"You best be careful, Dr. Clarkson. That sounds suspiciously like a compliment."

"It was good to see you here, Lady Isobel. Enjoy the rest of your evening," he replied.

"Same to you, Dr. Clarkson. The same to you."


	6. After the Hooley, After the Dance

**Chapter 6 – After the Hooley, After the Dance**

They walked for a few moments in easy silence, listening to the happy jumble of music and singing and conversation and merriment pouring out of the schoolhouse fade to a muted roar as they headed towards the edge of the village.

The sun was sinking low in the sky, dark purplish clouds streaked across orange. The day's nearly endless rain had painted the sky with a gorgeous riot of color, shades of blue and pink and gold. Charlie walked in his shirt sleeves, his jacket slung over one should, and he reached out to hold her hand, rather than tuck it into the crook of his arm.

She felt like a girl after a church dance, she really did. Most weddings she attended were happy affairs, even the ones on the stuffier end of the spectrum; however, she noticed that some of them held a bit of extra magic in them, for all of their attendees. This had been one of them.

"I was wrong then, it seems," Charlie finally spoke. "This _was_ a perfect day for a wedding." He grinned over at her.

"I was just thinking something nearly that myself, Charlie. You hope all of them are joyful, but some of them…are a bit more special than that, even," she swung her arm a little, the one attached to his, and grinned over.

"They seem very happy, the Molesleys. They're rather well-suited, aren't they?"

"Aye, they are, on both accounts, I believe. Gentle souls, both of them, and disposed to give the best to the world, even if it doesn't always reciprocate," she grinned at the thought of the newly-wedded couple.

"I'd nearly forgotten, them dancing the evening away together at our wedding. But now, I remember noticing something about them, even then…" he trailed off, and she laughed out loud.

"Yes, ye did, I remember it well. You wondered if something was afoot, and of course there was, though it took them a bit longer to get to it," she smiled, then laughed again. "Though not as long as some, I suppose."

"I was thinking about that, about what you said this morning," he stopped for a second, and his face became serious. "About timing, and about us."

"You needn't be so solemn, Charlie," she reached up and stroked his cheek, brushed an errant, sweaty curl of hair from his forehead. "We're here, and ye're stuck with me for good now, Mr. Carson."

"I remember it all, you know," he caught the hand that was tidying his hair in his larger one. "Well, not all of it, certainly, but much, most of it, Elsie."

"That ye serenaded me with a Scottish tune at our own hooley?" She teased him. "A rare live performance from the grand vocalist, Charles Carson?"

"Yes," he answered, and though his face was still serious, the corner of his mouth was twitching, just a little. "And that Miss Baxter pinned white roses in your hair that evening. And that you were right, after all of it, that the schoolhouse was the best, the only, choice for us." He was so earnest, sometimes, and she rather liked it. It helped her to remember these moments on days he was being particularly curmudgeonly.

"No woman will ever stop a man from telling her she's right, I'll give you _that_ , Mr. Carson," she quipped, as they began walking again, still clasping hands like young folks courting.

"I was happy to see Lady Isobel in attendence today," she finally spoke again, thinking on the other woman. Her position in the social strata of Yorkshire broadly, and Downton Village specifically, was an unenviable one, in Elsie's mind. From no-nonsense middle class matron, to mother of the incumbent Earl, then, after her son's shocking, sudden death, the grandmother thereof; and now, a Dowager Baroness.

"As was I," Charlie replied, less than enthusiastically. She knew what he was about.

"However...?"

She could see his raised eyebrow, even in the fading light. " _However,_ while I don't fault her for attending the Molesleys' wedding ceremony, as would be proper and fitting, and rather generous, I do believe she most fittingly should have left afterwards, or, perhaps, after the luncheon."

"I appreciate you feeling that way, Charlie, believe it or not," she laughed at his shocked expression. "She _is_ still in mourning, and a lady, at that."

"Exactly, Elsie; Lord Merton's death was what? Three, four months ago? I won't classify it as 'unseemly' as I don't believe Lady Grey falls into that category or anywhere near it...but her staying for the hooley, it certainly felt a bit..."

"Inappropriate?" She suggested, trying hard not to shake her head at him.

"Yes, inappropriate," he looked down at her. "I am sure you're going to explain to me why, in great detail, that it was not, however."

"Nae, it's not for _me_ to decide the moral or social acceptability of Lady Isobel's presence today; it's far above my humble place in the world," she answered. It was her turn, she supposed, to be earnest. " _However_ ," she continued, and paused for effect. "However, on a personal level, it was good to see her enjoying herself this evening. Though I understand it may be seen as a slight to Lord Merton's memory," she conceded.

"Precisely. You'll not be kicking up _your_ heels so soon after I am gone," he replied.

"That'll be enough of _that_ talk, Mr. Carson, thank you very much," she stopped on the path that would lead them to their home in a few turns. "We'll all be gone, one day, but let's not dwell on it, not tonight, if you don't mind?" She reached up and kissed him soundly, brushing her hand over his cheek. Their kiss broke after a few moments and they continued walking.

"I wasn't trying to upset you, Elsie, merely explaining my confusion - and, yes, if I am honest - my disapproval of Lady Grey's _display._ "

"Everyone is different, though, Charlie, and we'd do best to remember that," she answered. "Lady Isobel has lost much in the past few years; no parent should lose their child, it's not the right order of things, and to lose Mr. Crawley at such a time, at the birth of his child, the height of happiness..." she trailed off. "We cannot understand that. She must have hardened herself, in many ways, to carry on afterwards. I am sure she was fond of Lord Merton, in her own way, but she survived the death of her first husband, and that of her _son..._ she deserves some joy, truly."

"We've only been married two years, and I would be lost without you," he replied, and she felt the tears pressing against the back of her eyes. But she laughed instead.

"Yes, you ninny, but you've loved me for far longer, and I you," she answered. They'd arrived home; they walked inside, and he turned towards her.

"Yes, I have, Elsie. I've loved you for so long, it's hard to remember _not_ loving you, though I know there was a time when it was a new sensation. And it terrified me."

"Do you now? And when was that, precisely?" He wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzled her neck. She stroked the bristly hairs at his nape.

"When I thought I was going to have to face life without you in it, of course," he responded, the creases between his forehead deepening. They hardly ever discussed her cancer scare, though sometimes, his fingers would linger on the tiny indentation on her breast where the needle had drawn the fluid out, all those years ago.

"Ah, of course," she answered, and began humming an old, familiar tune. His face changed completely; he grinned broadly down at her, began singing:

 _"Dashing away with a smoothing iron, dashing away with a smoothing iron..."_

He whirled her around, once, twice, three times, and they enjoyed a dance of their own, just the two of them.


	7. Family

**Chapter 7 – Family**

 **A/N: I just think you all are terrific. That's it. Thanks for reading, reviewing, reblogging, emojis, messages and various version of love letters. Every single one means so much to me.**

 **My _own_ Mr. Molesley had a bit of health scare this weekend (he's on the mend!), so coming back to Baxley feels really good right now. ~CeeCee**

 **NB: We have definitely moved into T/M territory with this chapter, and there's no going back! ;-)**

Phyllis sat, scrunching up her toes inside of her flat shoes. The joints popped with relief. She'd never danced so much in her life. She'd never had a better day, start to finish, in her life. She grinned, gazing over at Joe, deep in conversation with his old school friend, Jamie and his wife, Bess. She had first met Jamie when she and Joe had been searching what felt like every pub in York to find John Bates' alibi. It was no wonder, then, she always associated the man with happy, giddy feelings. She fell in love with Joe during one of those many trips, or perhaps, all of them. She wasn't entirely sure.

She laughed a little to herself, deeply contented. Night has just fallen outside, the musicians were packing up, guests were leaving in twos and threes and fours, stopping to shake her hand or kiss her cheek. The party was over, but she certainly didn't mind, as joyful as it had been. She was going home soon. With her _husband._

She decided she'd not offend the reception stragglers if she took a seat at the bench right outside the front door of the schoolhouse, so she caught Joe's eye, gestured, and headed into the warm summer night. She sat, stretched her toes out even more extravagantly, now that she was seated. She chuckled, both tired and exhilarated.

"Phyllis, love," a voice spoke above her. She looked up into the smiling face of the elder Mr. Molesley. William, he was, Bill to most. He was one of the gentlest people she'd ever met, like his son.

"Hello, Mr. Molesley," she smiled at him as he sat next to her, picked up her hand in his, which was rough from all of the gardening he so loved.

He smiled over at her, a look of great contentment on his face. The evening breeze lifted his grey hair at the temples. "What a fine day, my dear, start to finish, wouldn't you say?"

"The best day, I would say," she replied, grinning back at him.

"Every bride should think that, of her wedding day."

"This bride certainly does," she squeezed his fingers. She paused a moment, but then rushed on, afraid she would lose her nerve if she didn't hurry. "Because she's gained not only a husband, but a father."

Bill Molesley started as if he'd been doused with cold water. He turned to her, tears in his eyes. She felt them pushing against her own lids in response. The older man pressed his fingers against hers tightly, and she pressed back. Neither of them seemed able to speak.

Suddenly, Joe appeared in the doorway, his coat jacket thrown casually over his shoulder, his face open and easy.

"Ah, there you are, the pair of you. Planning on running off together?"

"I'll be off then, Joe, Phyllis," Bill Molesley squeezed her hand one final time, then released it. He stood, pulled his son's face towards his own, and heartily kissed him on each cheek.

"This is the best day, Joe, my boy, the very best day, like the day I married your mother," he folded Joe into a hug.

"That it is, Dad, the very best," he replied, hugging his father back tightly, gazing over at her, smiling. His father finally released him, and Phyllis stood, moved towards both of them. Joe wrapped his arm around her waist.

"Good night, m'boy. Good night, sweet Phyllis," he tipped his hat at both of them, moved to go. Phyllis left Joe's side. Leaned over and kissed his father's cheek.

"Good night, Dad. We'll see you soon. You'll have to come for Sunday dinner next week," she replied, returning to Joe's side. Both men started at her address of the elder, looked at each other, then back at her.

And in the warm gaze of both Molesley men, her family now, she'd never felt so loved, or so cherished.

oooOOOooo

They reached the little house that Joe had lived in since he'd left Downton, a narrow, red brick number in the village with a tiny, pretty front garden that bore the stamp of his father's careful tending. They stood there for a moment, on the walk out front. She squeezed his arm a bit tighter, and he gazed down at her. She could hardly believe she was here. She could hardly believe _he_ was.

"Here we are," he said softly to her. "Home." It came out as a sigh.

"At last," she replied.

"At last," he agreed, then cleared his throat. "Love, what you said, what you called my father, I…" he trailed off, blinking back tears, gathered himself. "It meant a lot to him. _You_ mean a lot to him. The world, really. As you do to me, come to think of it."

And his face broke out into that sunny, wide, unaffected smile of his that always undid her, every single time. She reached up and kissed him, briefly but soundly.

"Shall we, then, Mr. Molesley?" She gestured towards their front door.

"I believe we shall, Mrs. Molesley," he replied, and neither of them could stop grinning.

oooOOOooo

It was time for bed, and she was nervous. No, not about the same things other brides may have been, when faced with this moment of their wedding night. She walked into Joe's bedroom, _their_ bedroom, feeling the past tugging at her, but quickly pushed any remnants of shame and guilt that clung to her because of her entanglements, both literal and emotional, with Peter Coyle. Joe knew _everything._ He didn't care. Or rather, he _did_ care, enough that none of it mattered, not any longer.

She sighed. She could hear her new husband puttering around in the sitting room, shutting off lamps and closing windows. She squared her shoulders, then smiled at the new bedspread that had replaced Joe's simple duvet. She had sewn it herself, in the past weeks, bending over her reliable little machine, in the late hours of the evenings at Downton, dreaming of this exact moment.

Joe came in the room behind her, and she turned to face him, her heart pounding. He stepped towards her, but didn't reach for her, though they were close enough for her to feel the warmth coming from his body, and though he'd pulled her close a dozen, two dozen times today, at least. His face was serene, but his body gave off pops and bursts of energy.

"Are you nervous?" He finally spoke.

"No," she shook her head, then reconsidered. "Maybe," she laughed. "Are you?"

"Enormously," he answered, and his face was so earnest and open, she reached her hands up, stroked his cheeks. She placed one palm against his chest. His heart was pounding furiously.

"But you are brave, and it's just me here," she answered, gazing up at him, grinning a little, teasing, but, oh-so-gently.

"Maybe that's what's got me so nervous, did you ever think of that?" His heart was still thumping fiercely under his dress shirt, but he was smiling at her, and the desire she'd seen on his face when they stood together behind the schoolhouse suddenly made his eyes hazy.

They had spoken, openly and plainly, about their pasts as the months became mere weeks before their wedding day. They both had things they had lived through, done, failed to do, people they had cared about or loved, that each carried around with them.

But now, it was them. _Only_ them. And that was all that mattered.

And now, his hands were reaching, searching for the pins holding her hair in place. He pulled each one free, unraveling the whorls and curls that Anna had created half a day ago. He took his time, then pulled his fingers through her waves gently, letting them fall around her shoulders in an auburn cloud. She leaned into his ministrations and didn't even realize she was crying until he wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Alright, then?" He asked, pecking her damp cheeks with tiny kisses, his voice so boyish and sweet.

"Joe, Joe, Joe…" she murmured, and she felt his fingers pulling down the zipper of dress, felt it fall to the floor in a gasp of silk.

"Birdie," he breathed the pet name into her neck. _That's me, the bird that rises from the ashes,_ she thought, and wrapped her arms around him.

They moved to the bed, the coolness of the sheets against her back, the warmth of his body on top of her. He was so deliberate, so certain. He took his time with everything, kissing her with those tiny impressions of his lips everywhere there was bare skin, then pulling her slip off and tossing it aside.

Had she thought she understood the nature of desire? Or of love, for that matter? She hadn't. Every cell of her was thrumming, along with the sound of the rain outside, which had begun to fall again.

When she had imagined this night, this moment, this release, in her narrow bed at the grand house, she expected to feel forgiven, to feel redeemed. What she hadn't expected, not at all, when he finally entered her, when they were at last joined together, moving together, was an overwhelming sensation of completeness.

Forgiveness? Redemption? Who needed those? She was whole, at last.


	8. What's Left

**Chapter 8 – What's Left**

 **A/N: Thank you all for your enthusiastic response to the last chapter. I really loved writing it, and it was for my own bae, so it meant that much more. I am really enjoying the rotating POV of this fic a lot, and having to refocus my writing on each protagonist, because everyone is in different stages of love/attraction/intimacy, as well as stages of their lives in general.**

 **I am gonna stick with Elsie/Phyllis/Isobel POVs, but have decided to add Thomas in here and there as well. I've indicated in a few of my other fics that Thomas finds mature, reciprocal, lasting love (with that fellow who owns the haberdashery in Ripon, some readers may recall) at last, and it might be fun to add the beginnings of his romance to this tale.**

 **Okay, this is Lady Grey's chapter. Let's get to it! (Sorry, CSotA, there's lots more UST/angst before the big pay-off. ;-))**

 **Late June, 1927**

It was a stunning day.

The Yorkshire summer was in full bloom, and everywhere outside of the car window, the day clamored for Isobel's attention. Fluffy clouds drifted languidly across the cobalt sky. The scent of roses and heliotrope filled the air. Downton villagers passed each other cheerfully on the streets, children running past, calling and catcalling to each other as they played an impromptu game of tag.

She suddenly needed to be outside. She suddenly needed to go visit someone.

"Davis, can you please pull up by the church?"

"M'lady? I thought we were going to the Dowager Countess Grantham's?"

"That we will, Davis, in a moment. The Dower house shall not crumble and collapse if I am running a few minutes behind. I am nearly certain the mistress of the place has the means to keep the tea hot and the finger sandwiches cold," she replied, catching her driver's eye.

She liked Jack Davis quite a bit. The young man had a sense of humor the other servants under her employ did not. Dickie had been a different sort of master, than she mistress. She'd never shake her middle class past, nor her need for industry. Most of the small staff she kept simply didn't understand her; she made them uneasy, save Jack Davis.

"Very well, ma'am. I'll pull over right here, then? I was concerned for a moment, the Dowager had moved into the apse of the church, but I suppose not," Davis grinned at her in the rearview mirror.

"I suppose not, Davis," she smirked at the young man as he opened the car door for her. She crossed to the side of the church where the graveyard were. She stopped briefly at Dickie's, resting her hand on the new, smooth arch of the headstone, which was topped by a serene, far-looking angel, thinking of his warmth, his devotion to her, his kindness.

Then she continued to her intended destination, the place she'd been inspired by the beautiful day to pause at, before continuing her afternoon.

"Hello, Matthew," her voice was matter-of-fact as she smiled down at her son's headstone. _Beloved Son, Husband & Father. Oh, how you would have been, my boy. How George would have adored you, and you, him. And how your wife _did _adore you, my boy._ She hadn't cried over her son in ages; no, this loss was deeper than tears, longer than weeping. Part of her was now missing, and always would be. Tears could never fill that space, so she didn't see the point of trying.

"Quite a day, isn't it? A fine day for a game of cricket, or a long bike ride. You should see George, my dear. He's no longer a baby, he's left that all behind. He's so proud of his pony, he's becoming a fine rider, thanks to Mary. He's writing now, and will be learning sums before we all know it. He's got your mind, Matthew, and your generosity," she kept speaking, thinking of her grandson, who was nearly six. His limbs, his face, over the past few months, shedding their babyish roundness.

Every year, as that fateful date in late August approached, Isobel would feel queasy. What's one to do with a day that brought the life of an only grandson and the death of an only son? She simply didn't know. Mary, somehow, carried on, celebrating her son's birthday each year as if there was only joy in the day, no shadows. She wondered if her former daughter-in-law knew how much she admired her, for that alone.

Isobel knelt gracefully, brushed a few stray leaves from the grave. There was a small, fresh bouquet of summer flowers resting at the base of stone, a riot of colors and textures. Mary must have brought them, or, possibly, Cora. She would bring some later this summer, certainly.

She heard someone walking around the bend and stood. Elsie Carson was there, with her own small posy of daisies. The other woman smiled and nodded, heading in her direction.

"Lady Isobel, good afternoon," the housekeeper looked at her for a long moment, then down at Matthew's grave. "I miss him in the big house, sometimes, m'lady. He was a truly goodhearted, kind person. His influence is still felt at Downton."

"I miss him too, Mrs. Carson, nearly every day," Isobel replied, surprised that tears were pushing against her eyes. "But I'm glad, really, when it comes down to it, he found such love, such happiness with Mary, even though it was for such a short time."

"It made Lady Mary a different person, being loved by Mr. Crawley," Elsie Carson said softly. "It made her a _better_ person."

"Well, there you have it, then. What else can we hope for, then that, Mrs. Carson? Then to influence and touch each other, for the better?"

"What else, indeed?"

"I should have brought flowers, as you did, but I stopped without planning on it," she nodded to Elsie's bouquet.

"That's not yours, then?"

"No, I can only guess that Mary left it, or perhaps Cousin Cora or Cousin Robert," Isobel replied.

"Aye, mayhaps," Elsie Carson paused, seemed to be considering something.

"What is it, Mrs. Hughes?" In her curiosity, she reverted to the housekeeper's maiden name.

"Well, m'lady, my sister passed this past winter, and she's buried here, in the village, though she never lived here, to be nearer to me. I try to visit at least once a week, as time allows. And, well, I've noticed, from time to time, that Mr. Branson stops by Mr. Crawley's grave, when he's here with Miss Sybbie, visiting Lady Sybil. It might have been him, you see," Elsie cleared her throat, then seemed to decide firmly on something. "And, Lady Isobel, I've also seen Doctor Clarkson leave flowers here, more than once."

Isobel's heart caught in her throat. The tears were very insistent now, shocked into being by the other woman's revelation. They just looked at each other for a long moment. _Sometimes, it's impossible to know how much we touch another person._

She thought of Reg, how sick with love she'd been with him in those first few years, the headiness of it never entirely fading; even after over twenty-five years of marriage, the sight of him could send her stomach rolling pleasantly, her heart fluttering. Their son had teased them endlessly, pleased to see his parents so in love after so many years. Wondering aloud, occasionally, if he'd find the same kind of love himself. Isobel was forever grateful he had, if only briefly.

Then she thought of Dickie, his kindness, his love for her so different than what he'd felt for his first wife, which had been a marriage of duty that had produced two sons hard like their mother, rather than gentle, like their father.

She had married Dickie because - well, she really wasn't entirely sure of the reasons, just as she hadn't been sure why she'd turned him down initially. He was a very good, very gentle sort of person, and he _needed_ her, he loved her, and frankly, some of the ways he acted around her reminded her of how she and Reg had been, all of those years ago. Except, the lovesickness had stricken only him; Isobel's affection and love for her second husband, while stalwart, had never been reckless, had never overwhelmed her. She'd chalked that up to age, maturity and wisdom.

Then why did she feel so overwhelmed _now_ , in this moment? Picturing Richard Clarkson's head bowed over her son's grave, his hat in one hand, a bouquet of summer flowers, in the other? Something he did, all on his own, not considering if anyone would take notice or not? Why was it so difficult for her to sort out her feelings for the good doctor, which were neither like how she'd felt for Reg nor Dickie, but something else entirely, something completely their own?

But, in the meanwhile, Elsie Carson was still looking at her, assessing her, kindly, of course, but she felt very transparent in the moment. The other woman cleared her throat, and smiled.

"So you see, Lady Isobel, Mr. Crawley – and you – are so valued at Downton and in the village, it's frankly hard to say who left these. They are rather pretty though, aren't they? A perfect bouquet for a beautiful summer day, like this," Elsie was smiling at her, her intelligent, warm eyes conveying other, unsaid things. The woman noticed _everything._ Isobel supposed it was her job, after all, as well as her nature.

"You're right, of course, Mrs. Carson. It does my mother's heart good to see evidence of the lives Matthew touched, whomever they are," she finally responded, and was relieved that her voice sounded calm and steady, and that the tears were retreating.

"Of course it does, and I am glad of it. And to be certain, Lady Isobel, you are highly valued in the village in your own right, as well, lest you forget."

"I thank you, Mrs. Carson, for reminding me. But then, whom else would I come to but you, in the instance I've the sudden need to undermine the hierarchy or subvert the monarchy?"

Both of them laughed, and Isobel felt herself relax. She bid the other woman farewell and walked back to the waiting car, her waiting driver. She leaned back as Jack Davis drove her towards Cousin Violet's, thinking. Thinking about Richard Clarkson tending her son's grave all this time. Wondering what else she had missed, what signs, both internal and external she'd never seen, or misread, and trying to sort out if it was too late to get the message from them, or not.


	9. The Writing on a Person's Heart

**Chapter 9 – The Writing on a Person's Heart**

Elsie watched Isobel Grey walk down the gentle slope towards her waiting car, thinking hard. The other woman's reaction to her admission that she'd seen the doctor at her son's grave wasn't at all what she expected, and _that_ surprised Elsie herself. She considered herself more knowledgeable of the general lay of the land of the relationships that entangled those who lived in the village, especially those who touched the big house itself.

 _Nae, Elsie, it appears you're just a nosy old woman rather than the combination of psychologist and soothsayer you thought you were,_ she laughed to herself as she walked over to Becky's grave. It was hard, in many ways still, to come here, to realize that she'd never see her sister's face or hear her raucous laughter again. She knelt and set the flowers down, a burst of white on the green grass.

"Hi Becs," she said softly, touching the tiny stone bird that perched atop the headstone. It had been Charlie's idea, and Elsie had loved him more for it, in that moment. There were so many of those moments, she felt, peppering their long acquaintance. Some of them, however, were especially sweet.

"Charlie's working today, love, or he'd have come with me," she continued. "I'll bring him by next week, after church." She paused again, thinking. Thinking of all of the young people she knew buried right in this yard. Matthew Crawley, Sybil Branson, Lavinia Swire, William Mason…

"Ah, Becs. We've lost so many, too soon, you included, my dear," she wiped her cheeks, swallowed hard. "It's a bit foolish of me, isn't it, to think I know everything? That I have all of the answers? Poor Lady Isobel…" she trailed off again, rising, resting her hand on the headstone.

Anyone who had been paying attention the past dozen years or so, since Matthew Crawley and his mother had come to live in Downton village, knew Doctor Clarkson was in love with her, and had been for some time. Even _Charlie_ knew that, a thought which made her chuckle. Her husband didn't tend to worry himself with romantic entanglements unless they were his own.

But if the doctor's feelings were obvious to all, the object of his affection's had been the source of years of gossip, suppositions, speculation and sly looks. And then the matter appeared to be firmly decided once Mrs. Crawley became Lady Grey.

 _However._

Now Elsie wasn't so sure. She'd been tempted to leave Richard Clarkson's off of the list of visitors to Matthew's grave only because she thought the reminder of the doctor's unrequited affections would discomfit the other woman.

And she _had_ been discomfited, certainly, but not at all in the way expected. There was definitely something else going on there, feelings that may not have been completely understood, or expected, from anyone, least of all, Isobel Grey herself.

 _Who knows, exactly, what's written on someone's heart?_ Elsie thought, stroked her sister's headstone one last time, before heading down the hill herself.

oooOOOooo

Once she'd left the churchyard, she spent a little time just walking, leisurely, without a specific destination in mind. It took her nearly forty years in service to do so, but at last, she'd begun to appreciate her days off.

 _Perhaps,_ she thought with a grin, _'tis because one of the greatest personal draws at Downton, Elsie, now sleeps besides you, in your own cottage._ Perhaps. And a burst of laughter escaped her, loud enough that three lads walking by with their dog glanced over at her, grinning. The oldest tipped his cap at her, then a wink. She laughed again.

It was going on four o'clock now, and she focused her ramblings in the direction of Yew Tree Farm, where the Masons had invited a tableful of friends over for Sunday supper. Charlie would be wrapping up his final tour of the day at Downton, and would meet her there. She was sorry for his absence, but happy for his continued usefulness at the big house. She knew what it did for his confidence.

"Mrs. Hughes!"

She turned, smiling, at the voice. The Molesleys were a few yards behind her. He was waving at her, she was carrying her sewing basket. They looked happier than she'd imagine two people possibly could, if she didn't see it with her own eyes every time she was in their company.

"Well, good afternoon to my two favorite newlyweds," she grinned as they joined her. "Why in heaven's name do you have your sewing kit, Mrs. Molesley? Certainly you don't have edibles in there for the big supper, do you?"

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I've not," Phyllis laughed. "I'm working on Daisy's headpiece and veil, for the wedding. I need her to try it on for me, and since we were going to supper at Yew Tree with you all, I figured I may as well bring it with me."

"I don't know how she does it, Mrs. Hughes," Joe interjected. "All of the pieces, the bits and bobs, the beads, the lace, she puts them together, they look like pieces of art, they honestly do."

Elsie bit the sides of her cheek to avoid giggling. It was touching, though slightly amusing, to see the man's endless enthusiasm for his wife. "I suppose, Mr. Molesley, it's a good thing she's employed as a lady's maid, then, so she can put those skills to best use on a daily basis."

She glanced over at Phyllis Molesley, who also looked as if she might be holding back laughter, but was also gazing at her husband with such open, unaffected love, it squeezed Elsie's heart a little to see it.

"I'm all thumbs, me," Joe admitted, looking at both of them.

"Not something you'd expect to hear from a former butler and footman, Mr. Molesley," Elsie retorted, and then she couldn't help it: the laughter spilled out of her. The man's wife joined in.

Joe Molesley looked consternated for a moment, then recovered. "I suppose I'm better employed as a teacher, in any case, come to think of it."

They'd arrived at the farm, and Beryl Mason was standing in the doorway, her small, stout figure waving, spoon in hand. They greeted her with good cheer, and more laughter.

oooOOOooo

Beryl and Elsie stood in the farmyard, looking up at the full moon, riding high in the darkening evening sky. Her brother, the sun, was only just visible, a sliver of orange fire sinking behind the rolling Yorkshire hills in the distance.

They each sighed, then laughed at each other. There was a rustling sound in the dimness, and suddenly two figures appeared silhouetted against the riotous sunset, one slight, one tall. Daisy and Andy, hand and hand, taking a post-dinner stroll in the twilight.

Elsie grinned over at her friend, and Beryl nudged her. They both giggled, and the young couple turned in the gloaming.

"We'll be back in a few minutes, Mrs. M! I'll be 'round in time to help with the clean up!" Daisy's voice drifted over to them. Elsie heard Andy mumble something unintelligible.

"Promises, promises!" Beryl called after Daisy, chuckling again.

"Ah, young love," Elsie declared, laughing again. "Remember that feeling, Beryl? It seemed to need somewhere to go, didn't it? Like you'd burst, otherwise."

"I do, Elsie," her friend answered. "Petey Smith, 'twas the lad that got my heart racing all those years ago. He came right up to me after church one day, said he loved the lemon cake I'd made for the social the week before. Said he thought I was sweeter, though." Beryl glanced over at her, side-eyed, and they both started giggling again.

"They do get better at the niceties as they get older, thank goodness," Elsie shook her head, thinking of herself as a lass, of earnest, goodhearted Joe Burns. Of her eloquent husband, just as earnest and goodhearted.

There was a burst of laughter from inside, and then the sounds of a pair of men's voices raised in song.

"That'd be Charlie and Mr. Molesley, sounds like," Elsie rolled her eyes. "I hope Albert, Mrs. Molesley and the Bateses enjoy the performance. Though I suppose it's a reminder to us, that young love isn't the only ardent love there is."

"No, yeh're right about that, Elsie," Beryl replied, sitting on the bench against the wall of the farmhouse. Elsie joined her. "Haven't we two learned as much in the past few years?"

"It's funny to think it, isn't it?" Elsie mused. "Who would have thought, the pair of us, happily married women, addressing each other by our Christian names, in the space of two year, or so, Beryl?"

"Well, I don't quite know how _I_ got here, but you and yonder baritone in there were a foregone conclusion for years past," Beryl replied.

"Were we? Sometimes I wonder…sometimes, it's so hard to really _know_ another person's heart, don't you think?"

"Yeh certainly know it now, yeh ninny!" Beryl laughed.

"That's not what I mean," Elsie answered, still thinking. Of herself and Charlie. Of Isobel Grey's face, by her son's grave, when she spoke of the town's doctor. Of Daisy and Andy, somewhere nearby, stealing a few well-deserved kisses before they parted ways for the evening. Daisy, who spent so much time after William's death punishing herself yearning for a man she couldn't have, but who finally learned she was worthy of love. Of her friend beside her, now married to a sweet, hard-working farmer. "How did you know, then? To take Albert seriously, really?"

Beryl looked startled. "Well…hmmm. It all happened rather quick-like, if you remember. At least, it seemed that way to me, though he admits he'd been pondering me for some time a'fore he said a word…" her usually gregarious friend trailed off, thinking too. "It was the holidays, right before Will Bates was born, New Year's, you know. I had taken his teasing, his kind words as friendliness, nothing more. Even if…even if I thought well of him at that point. But then, he said something, in the kitchen. Something about visiting here, more often, since Daisy was movin' to be here, with him. I think it was then, I realized. Maybe he had ideas… _designs_ , dare I use that word. That maybe…he really cared for me, not just the idea of another wife, but for _me,_ specifically."

They both sighed again. Another song started up in the kitchen behind them. It now sounded like John Bates had thrown in his talents to the mix, and they glanced at each other in surprise.

"What about you, then? Dare I ask? When you _knew_ Mr. Carson truly cared for you, and something might come of it?"

"Oh, dear," Elsie replied. "We've known each other so long, you see, and cared about each other so much of that time, without really realizing it. Though I am sure others did," she finished dryly. "But when did I think, when did I _hope_ there might be more to it? When he came to me with the house-buying scheme, of course, for which we both shall have to thank you for, until the end of our days."

"Love gets complicated sometimes, doesn't it?"

"Aye, that it does. Not because of people, I don't think. But because of all the rules we have to follow, sometimes, we keep our hearts secret, even from ourselves."

"A shame, that, don't you think?"

"That I do, which is why we're sitting here in this yard as my husband caterwauls at yours inside," Elsie finished, and they both laughed again, happy to be together, with the people they loved so well nearby.


	10. The Red Lion

**Chapter 10 - The Red Lion**

 **A/N: So! Here's my first Thomas chapter. I feel oddly protective of him, for some reason. The women that I like to write about – Phyllis and Elsie – _also_ ****feel protective of him, in their own ways. It would be nice to think, after hitting such a nadir emotionally, Thomas would be able to heal, and even, find love, of all kinds, not just romantic love.**

 **~CeeCee**

He walked into the village slowly, enjoying the mild breeze that ruffled his hair and blew the smoke of his cigarette in a thin, white banner behind him. It was quiet at the big house tonight, with the Talbots and Tom Branson in London for a few weeks for the season.

As he strolled, he thought of Downton, back before the war. The bustle, the glamour, the grandeur of the place, of its inhabitants. That was a different world, a fairy tale, really, that even the very richest in England had to say good bye to, after the destruction of so many of its youth.

Oh, it had been a beautiful time, and he missed it sometimes; the servants' hall filled to overflowing; the ladies in their tea dresses; dashing, wide-eyed junior footmen, so handsome in their livery. So handsome, and so out of reach, of course, for the likes of him. But…that beautiful time, that fairyland, were also the years his heart became bitter, when something that had been hopeful, even good, inside of him had begun to decay.

Those were the years when he had bound himself to Sarah O'Brien, no more a bad person than he himself had been, but whose own darkness fed his. They each could have been a true friend to the other, but that wasn't the way it turned out. He had thought, for so long, the shadows were the only places for him. It took some time to get used to the light, to the person Thomas Barrow was _now._

Certainly, his job as butler of Downton wasn't exactly what Mr. Carson's had been, but he loved the place, to his core. It's where he belonged. It's where he finally felt at home, found friendships that still startled him sometimes: the sisterly, unwavering affection of Phyllis Molesley and Anna Bates. The warm, no-nonsense partnership he was building with Elsie Hughes, running the place beside her. And the children, of course: George and Sybil were some of the brightest spots in his daily existence.

Yes, Downton was no longer at its apogee of splendor, because the lines between the classes, between people, were softening, blurring. Oh, they were still there, but it was all getting rather muddy. Thomas was glad of it. The hard lines of the world he'd been born into were reflected in the hard lines of the scars across his wrists.

 _Change is good,_ he thought, and smiled, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. _As is trying new things._ He'd heard, through a few acquaintances in the village and just beyond, that the new pub, The Red Lion, had a slightly more relaxed, varied clientele than the staid Grantham Arms. And, if one were to stay until last call, the evening might prove even more interesting... _Not like London, nay, not even close. But get yourself down there one night, Tom. Preferably a Sunday, and you'll see what I mean._ His friend from the village, Clarke, has said to him a few weeks ago, with a grin.

Thus, here he was, strolling through the rather quiet village square, and up a sloping side street, to the unmarked building with the scarlet-painted door. His stomach fluttering a little in anticipation, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. He had no idea what to expect from the evening once he walked inside, but as he ground his cigarette out, and pushed the door open, he found himself intrigued to discover what lay beyond.

oooOOOooo

"So, Tom? 'Tis exactly as I said, isn't it? And we've not gotten to the lock-in yet, nor the snug in the back," Victoria Clarke grinned at him over her drink, which she threw back with abandon. Clarke, who was nearly as talented a seamstress as Phyllis Molesley, worked in Ripon, out of the men's haberdashery there, on any sort of bespoke creation the clientele could imagine. Some they couldn't.

It was no surprise, then, that the dove gray three-piece suit she herself wore was perfectly tailored to her tall, rather boyish figure. Her fair hair was short even by modern standards, with spit curls along her cheeks, pointing at her thin, wide mouth. He could hardly fathom what she was doing, or why she stayed, in Yorkshire. But he was glad she was here, in any case.

"I think I'll reserve my full judgement until the end of the evening, Clarke," Thomas took a sip of his own drink, something dangerously delicious with gin that the bartender had made for him, after assessing him up and down, twice. He looked around and couldn't help but grin. The Lion, even before the after-hours party started, _certainly_ wasn't anything like the Arms, not by a mile.

Though Clarke was certainly one of the most flamboyantly noticeable patrons, there were several other women in menswear, and vice versa. The place was very low-lit, resulting in a rather smeary, warm, casual approach to both dress and comportment of the patrons. If someone wandered into the Lion unawares, he or she might very well _stay_ unawares, if he or she wasn't paying too close attention. That seemed to be the point of the place, Thomas felt.

"Let's go into the back, right?" Clarke jumped off her barstool as the publican shouted "Last call!" Thomas wasn't sure whether or not to laugh at the man's exaggerated winking and mugging as he said it or not. Everything was feeling a bit surreal at the moment, including catching the eye of Septimus Spratt, who, under normal circumstances, he couldn't stomach, but in this setting he felt a certain camaraderie towards.

They toasted each other, grinned briefly, then the other man turned back to his conversation, still smiling. Clarke pushed aside a heavy, dark velvet curtain that revealed a door behind it. She ushered Thomas into the room beyond, then shut the door behind them.

The snug was a bit smaller, a bit dimmer, than the two main rooms, but it was the atmosphere that Thomas was struck by: he supposed, if he thought about it at all, he was expecting exuberant debauchery when Clarke led him here. But that wasn't what this place was, he suddenly realized; it wasn't an escape.

It was a refuge.

There was a small, curved bar in the corner, where several patrons sat drinking and smoking. Others were seated, in twos and threes, on chaise lounges and love seats. One couple was kissing; the trio beside them was playing a game of cards. There was a Victrola playing something sweet and melancholic, as a half-dozen couples made up of a variety of pairings, revolved slowly around the tiny dance floor.

He let a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding out. Something inside of him relaxed, completely, for the first time in a long time.

"You need another," Clarke gestured to his empty glass. "And I want you to meet my new boss." He moved carefully through the dancing pairs. One of them, a man and woman in their fifties, smiled at him, said hello. He was almost certain it was the grocer and his wife, but who, honestly, could say?

He and Clarke were at the bar, and he held up his glass to the female barkeep. She nodded, got to work on his drink. His friend tapped the shoulder of one the seated men, and he looked up, turned towards them.

"Clarke, you minx, of course _you're_ here tonight. Where's Sally, then?" The man greeted her with a hug, as Clarke shrugged a response. Then he turned to Thomas, still smiling.

There was a split second where everything seemed to stop. It was so quick, he wasn't sure it actually had happened. But then, suddenly, heaving a breath as if he'd been holding it, his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

"Hello," the stranger held out his hand, and Thomas took it, squeezing his fingers in his own. "Francis Holmes."

"Thomas Barrow," he replied, surprised his voice sounded so calm, so _normal._ What was happening to him? The man in front of him was taller than he, and bigger, and roughly his own age. He had a head of thick auburn hair, and a well-manicured beard that was three shades lighter, the color of fresh honey. His suit was impeccable, even more beautiful than Clarke's.

The moment was broken by the arrival of dark-haired young woman in a drop-waisted silk dress and cherry-red lipstick. "Vee, come now, love. Sorry boys, I'm stealing her away."

Thomas and Francis Holmes took a minute to watch Clarke and her paramour join the dancing couples, who were now moving more briskly to a jazzy number. Thomas was grappling with himself, trying to find purchase.

"Clarke called you 'her new boss' on the way over to meet you," he started, turning back to Francis, who yes, was as handsome as he'd been moments before, much to his chagrin and pleasure. Thomas bit back crazed laughter; his stomach rolled pleasantly.

"Oh, yes!" The man's light gray eyes lit up. "I've always wanted a shop of my own, and the spot in Ripon belonged to my uncle, for a long while. He's decided it was high time for retirement, and, just like that, the place is mine." Francis took a long sip of his drink, grinned at Thomas. "Yorkshire's a bit different than Picadilly, but it suits this former country lad alright for now. Especially when I've got Clarke, finding spots like this. Well, 'spot' I should say, as I am sure there's not more than one like the Lion anywhere closer than York, if at all, in this county."

"Funny, Mr. Holmes – I'm a city lad who's dedicated the majority of my life to a grand house in Yorkshire," Thomas replied, settling into his seat, charmed by the easy friendliness of this man, his openness. "The city streets brought me up, but 'twas here I landed, and here I stayed."

"You're the butler at the estate, then, right? You've been there long?" Francis turned towards him, leaned forward. He smelled of cigars and beard balm.

"Yes, I'm the butler at Downton," Thomas answered, thinking. What to tell? And how much? He took a deep breath, a chance. "And I've wanted to say that for most of my adult life, if I'm honest. It's new enough to feel a bit thrilling, still, to tell people." He grinned at him, and the other man grinned back. He looked away, mildly embarrassed, then took a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, proffered the pack at Francis, who pulled one free.

"What happened? If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Barrow?" He gestured to the half-glove that covered Thomas' missing fingers, his lingering shame. "The war?" Francis Holmes gave him the perfect out, a way around the truth, without evening knowing it.

"Yes," he cleared his throat, thinking back to the blood, and the mud, and the fear and the death, stinking the air around him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it was the war, though that's not the whole story. It's not the easiest story to tell, I'll admit."

"No one gets through this life unscathed, Mr. Barrow, either inside or out," he smiled again, a gesture that went all the way up to his eyes, and Thomas breathed easier. "You know, though, I – or Clarke, clever devil that she is - can probably fashion you something more attractive, and more practical than that glove." He paused, put out his cigarette. The bartender brought them another round of drinks, unasked.

"Let me see," Francis Holmes held out his hand, and, like a man in a fever, Thomas stretched his own towards it. The other man's hand was warm and sweaty, the tips of his fingers calloused from his trade. His bushy brows furrowed, turning Thomas' gloved hand this way and that. "Yes, if you stop by sometime next week, the pair of us will get you sorted."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I appreciate that," Thomas' stomach flipped again, and, oh, did he relish the sensation. Imagined taking the street car to Ripon, to see this warm, handsome man in his newly-inherited haberdashery.

"Francis, please, I think. Or Frank, if you prefer," he looked up at Thomas. He was still holding his gloved hand in both of his.

"Well, Francis, thank you," he replied. "Then you must call me Thomas. I don't allow many to call me 'Tom', though Clarke tends to get away with it, somehow."

The other man burst out laughing. "She does, doesn't she? She gets away with most things," he glanced over at the dance floor, where Clarke and Sally were dancing closely, to another slow, sweet number.

"Thomas, then," he looked back at him, then down at their hands, atop each other. Then his face shifted a little behind his amber beard, and Thomas saw…he was looking at the raised scar along his wrist, that was no longer covered by his shirt cuff. "Thomas…" Francis trailed off a little, then looked up at him. "Sounds a bit like 'promise'. I never noticed that before."

Thomas searched the other man's face for any hint of treachery and saw none. Something inside him floated up, up, up, just as something else dipped low in his belly. He took a breath. _A promise. Yes. Okay, Frank. Let's see. A night of promise._

"Francis," he gulped half of his new drink, then looked across at him. "Would you care for a dance? I'll try not to intimidate you, but I'm rather good."

The other man's face broke into a broad grin. "I'd love a dance."


	11. Notions, Big & Small

**Chapter 11 – Notions, Big & Small**

Phyllis took one last look at herself in the mirror in the work room, adjusted her hat slightly. It was her half day, and she wanted to get home to her midday meal – and her new husband. She grinned widely at her reflection, and marveled at the effects of true affection, of daily care by another, on a person's countenance.

She was heading towards the servants' entrance when Thomas Barrow came out of his study, putting on his own hat.

"Ah, Mrs. Molesley, finished for the day, then?" He greeted her with a smile and she was struck by something new, something soft, in his face. Dreamy, almost, if such a thing were possible for Downton's butler.

"That I am, Mr. Barrow. Heading into the village? Fancy some company?" She replied, and he nodded.

They walked for a few moments in companionable silence. He lit a cigarette, took a few pulls on it. His eyes were far away, thinking. A smile darted on and off his lips.

"What's your afternoon have in store, then?" She finally asked.

"Street car to Ripon, to the haberdashery," he answered. The utter mundanity of his words belied the look on his face, which was that of George Crawley's when he successfully acquired biscuits out of the jar on the high shelf in the kitchen. "It's high time I update this particular look." He waved his half-gloved hand in gentle self-mockery.

"Oh, that's a fine idea," she responded. "Oh, would you mind asking them if they've a certain type of button in stock, and in what colors, if I write it down for you? I've not been there since the place changed hands, and by all accounts, it seems as if old Mr. Holmes' nephew has made some modern-leaning improvements, including carrying ladies' notions."

"Not a problem at all," he replied, and Phyllis glanced at him again. He was smiling, rather sweetly and boyishly, and she wasn't sure he was even aware of it. "Just let me know what you're looking for, I'm sure they'll be able to help you out."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," she answered, considered pressing. She was curious as to what – or whom – could cause her friend's face to look as it did at this particular moment. But she didn't have to. He told her, without exactly saying anything.

"I've met the younger Mr. Holmes, you know," Thomas began, and most of Phyllis' questions were answered in an instant. The answer was written all over his face. "Clarke – Victoria Clarke, that is, from the shop – introduced us the other night. Francis Holmes, freshly returned from London. It was he that suggested I stop by, in fact, and see what they could do for me."

Thomas rolled the man's name around in his mouth like a boiled sweet, and Phyllis resisted the urge to squeeze his arm, or clap her hands together, or do anything insinuating knowledge of what she could feel coming off of him in waves: infatuation. Hope. _Happiness._

"Then you ought to follow his professional advice, and do so," she answered with a shrug, as if it didn't matter to her one way or another. "And do make sure you ask him about the buttons, will you, Mr. Barrow?" She reached into her bag, wrote the pertinent information on a scrap of paper. They'd reached her turn-off, and she bid him farewell.

Before she walked down her own street, she observed him heading towards the streetcar stop, walking through the village square. His gate was easy, his head high. She thought, if she wasn't mistaken, she might even have heard Thomas Barrow _whistling._

She giggled a little, shook her head, and turned towards home.

oooOOOooo

She opened the front door and was greeted by her husband's enthusiastic singing, floating down the front hall from the small kitchen in the back of the house.

 _"…never saw the sun shining so bright_ _  
Never saw things going so right  
Noticing the days hurrying by…"_

She burst out laughing, tossed her light jacket carelessly on the hook by the door, pulling her hat off with abandon. Like a girl, she ran the short length of the hall to alight in the kitchen doorway. Joe was standing by the stove, upon which simmered something delicious-smelling. He was bent at the oven door, mitts at the ready. As she watched, he pulled a beautiful, round loaf of bread out, golden and split on top.

"Aha!" He exclaimed, laughed gleefully. He suddenly noticed her in the doorway. "Birdie! Look!" He held up the bread, which was quite impressive.

"Joe, what in heaven's name are you doing?" He had flour across his forehead. And on his nose. And his trousers. She started giggling again. Since setting up home together, they'd had many lunches comprised of cold meats, fresh bread and tinned beans, dropped-off roasts by well-meaning friends and neighbors, soups and other hastily thrown-together meals. Her new husband seemed to have something else in mind this evening.

"I made bread, love! Daisy and Mrs. Mason showed me how, and it actually worked! We should have a lesson on it this fall, it's just science, when it comes down to it. I never knew, imagine that? The students would find it brilliant, I think," he set the loaf on the sideboard.

"Your female students likely already know how to make bread, love," she grinned, walking into the warm, fragrant room.

"I hadn't thought of that," he looked startled. "The lads, then. It's quite satisfying, I must say." He grinned down at the loaf, as if there were nothing unusual about suggesting the village boys learn how to bake. _Maybe there shouldn't be,_ she mused, her heart filling up again, as it did so often these days, with contentment.

"Well, it looks lovely, even if the baker is a bit of a mess," she closed the space between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. She knew she'd come away with flour on her clothes, but she cared not in the least.

"I suppose I got a bit carried away, then, didn't I?" He pulled her close, smiling. "That seems to keep happening to me these days. I can't imagine why…" He leaned over and kissed her, and she breathed in the now-familiar, much-loved scent of him, overlaid with yeast and spices and the scent of browned meat.

He began humming again, dancing, leading her expertly around their tiny kitchen. She laughed as he began to sing:

 _"Blue days_ _  
All of them gone  
Nothing but blue skies  
From now on…"_

He kissed her again, his eyes going a shade darker, his breaths quickening. She recognized that look from the past few weeks, and realized they might likely be eating their supper cold. Her husband was a thoughtful, attentive and – to both of their pleasure, and perhaps their surprise – a tirelessly passionate lover.

"Your hair is a bit mussed, Mrs. Molesley," he teased, pulling his hands gently through it, expertly removing the pins.

"I admit, Mr. Molesley, I was in such a rush to catch your performance in here, I was rather catch-as-catch-can about removing my hat," she felt her own breathing speed up. "But, Joe, what about the lovely meal you prepared…?"

One hand was still working its way methodically through her waves, the other tugging down the zipper of her dress. She laughed again, but did nothing to stop him.

"Dinner can go hang," he _faux_ growled. "And the bread's too warm to eat right now, in any case." He sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, pulled her down onto his lap, holding her tightly around her waist, pulling her dress down to bare one freckled shoulder.

"Everything's too warm right now, I think," she breathed, then made a sound between a yelp and a sigh when he ran his hand up the length of her leg, settling briefly on her thigh, then exploring further upward. She gasped a little, made tiny sounds in the back of her throat.

A sudden clang from the stove startled both of them. The crock of stew atop it was bubbling over, pushing the lid aside with a crash.

"Damn!" Joe jumped up, pulled it off the burner. She stood there, limber and loose with lust, her dress only about halfway on her. She started giggling. He turned to her, pulling off the apron he'd been wearing, rather ineffectually, and tossing it to the floor.

"These are unsafe cooking conditions," he stated, then came over, swept her off her feet in a smooth movement. She yelped again. He looked down at her with that darkened, private look. "I insist we leave the kitchen immediately, to avoid ruining this supper I labored over all afternoon. I insist upon it."

oooOOOooo

Later, they stole back down to the kitchen, like children sneaking down for a midnight snack. They sat in their night clothes, she with her hair loose upon her shoulders. They ate cold stew and cold bread with butter that was soft and slippery from sitting out the past hour or so.

"Joseph, this is _delicious,_ " she buttered her second piece of bread. It was, and she was ravenous and loose and happy. She put her feet up on his chair, tucking her toes under his warm thigh.

"I'm quite pleased with it, Birdie," he beamed at her, his face soft and relaxed. "I'm quite pleased with everything, really."

"So am I, love," she looked him, and the air was filled with a warmth she'd never thought she'd experience. "But mostly with this bread."

They both laughed, hard, together in their little kitchen.


	12. Broken, But Still Whole

**Chapter 12 - Broken, But Still Whole**

 **NB: So, yeah guys. I am chef by profession. So, I can write confidently about Molesley baking bread, but yeah, I'm fudging it here a little with the medical emergency stuff. Anything I got right, thank the Girl Scouts circa 1987 where I learned some basics and the Mayo Clinic's page on treating a compound fracture. Anything I got wrong, be gentle! ~ CeeCee**

Isobel walked out into the fine late June afternoon, Violet Crawley beside her. They'd had a rather lovely time in the village's public tearoom, which was slightly less formal than either of their sitting rooms. Isobel was _still_ taken off-guard at the fuss that was made of the pair of them, wherever they went in the village. Thankfully, her cousin had no such misgivings, embracing the veneration of the villagers as if it were her due.

It likely was, in many ways, Isobel concurred. And it was good to see the other woman venture out beyond the Dower House, or Downton itself, which seemed to happen less and less frequently these days, other than for significant social events.

Jack Davis, her driver, saw them exit the establishment and pulled the car up to the curb. He had just gotten out, tipped his cap at them, and was ushering them towards the car, when the serene afternoon splintered into chaos.

She saw, from the corners of her awareness, the various moving parts that collided, literally, to shatter the easy, summer bustle of the afternoon: two cars stuck in an intersection, with no way past, due to the large farm wagon, filled to the brim with produce spilling into the street; the irritated exclamations of the drivers changing quickly to shouts of warning; and finally, the whooping of the two young lads, astride bicycles, coming quickly downhill from one of the side streets, turn into screams of fear.

One boy was able to slow himself down enough to skid out, both rider and cycle falling sideways, spinning low, kicking up dust and grass, hitting the ground with a thud, nearly sliding underneath the frame of the second car at the intersection.

The other lad wasn't as fast, or as lucky: his bike was moving speedily towards the three stalled vehicles, on a certain collision course with the first car; he tried to steer his ride sideways, but it was too late, and Isobel's heart dropped: the boy and bike hit the car, flew up and over the shiny, smooth black hood. He came crashing down with a splintering crunch that she could hear from twenty yards away. Separated from his bike, he landed on the other side of the car, in the street.

Blood was splashed across his forehead. His right leg was laying at an angle that hurt her eyes to look at, and a sinister, deep red spot was blooming outward at the knee of his torn trousers. She took a deep breath, felt that calm coolness she remembered from her days in the surgery with Reg. A lifetime ago, but her body and mind remembered it, this detached sense of organization.

Standers-by were already surround both boys, including the distraught driver of the first car. She had to get to the boy with the leg injury _now._ Before panic and good intentions made things worse.

"Jack, please make sure Lady Violet is seated safely in the car. Then _run_ to the hospital, tell them what's happening. Bring back Dr. Clarkson, or one of the senior nurses or residents." The young man immediately complied, but Violet Crawley let out a yelp of indignation.

"What are you doing, exactly, Cousin Isobel?"

"I need your cane," she answered, holding out her hand, locking gazes with this woman, her friend, her family. "Now, please."

Violet shrugged elegantly, passed it over. "You're going to throw yourself into the fray, I suppose?"

"Of course. If I don't, that boy may lose the full use of his leg. Or worse, lose it all together."

"You better get on with it then, as unseemly and middle class as it may be," Violet sat herself in the front seat of Isobel's car, looking somehow incomplete without her ornate walking stick.

Isobel ran, and for once, was grateful for her social status in the village. The small crowd parted easily, almost reverently, for her, and she knelt down on the hard dirt of the street where the boy lay. He was no more than twelve or thirteen, likely one of Joseph Molesley's students come the fall.

His eyes were half-shut and hazy, his skin grayish and covered in a sheen of sweat. She looked over at the driver of the first car, the one the boy had run into, over the child's prone form. The man looked seconds away from bursting into tears.

"M'lady," he managed. She vaguely recognized him, and was glad of it. People responded best in emergencies if you could focus them, and nothing focused one's mind than their own name.

"Mr. Avers," she answered briskly. She wanted him away from the scene of the crime, so to speak, but wanted him to feel useful. It would help assuage any guilt he was currently feeling over something he had absolutely no control over. "Can you please go into the tea room, or the Arms, and ask someone for a giant bucket of ice, please?"

The man nodded and was, his face already relaxing, now that he had something to do that he could handle. She turned back to the boy. His eyes were open, and she could, unfortunately, see the pain in them, making them glassy and bright.

"Well, hello there," she spoke firmly and clearly. "What's your name, then?"

"Johny," he replied. "I'm John Willis. Where's Eddie, then?"

"Don't worry about Eddie right now, someone's looking after him, John," she removed her glove, brushed her hand over the child's forehead, as much to soothe the lad as to ascertain, generally, his temperature. Without looking around, and locking gazes with him, she called out,

"If I could get some assistance from someone who believes they could, effectively, help out, I would be extremely grateful," she then leaned closer to John. "Can you tell me what hurts the most right now, John?" Waiting for the answer, hoping...

"My leg, ma'am," he replied. "Sort of...toward the bottom, and by my knee. It doesn't feel right..." he trailed off, the fear in his eyes smeared by pain and shock.

"What do you need, m'lady?" Someone said at her elbow and she nearly cried with relief, because she _knew_ the voice, and well. It was Downton's housekeeper.

"I've no idea where you came from, Mrs. Hughes, but I am glad you're here," she turned to the woman, who was kneeling down next to her.

"This'll teach me to run my own errands," the woman replied tartly. "I saw the commotion, and of course, couldn't help myself."

Isobel bit back wild laughter. "I need to check his leg, stop the bleeding, splint it, if I can. What I need from you, Mrs. Hughes, is to distract him. I don't want him to see the state of it, if it can be helped, and it's going to hurt him quite a bit." She paused, thinking. "Do you have your scissors on you?"

They were handed to her nearly before she finished the sentence. She switched places with the other woman, moving away from the boy's head, his worried, young face, and focusing on the real problem, his leg. And she needed to see _how_ big of a problem it was. Again, that cool, detached feeling washed over her, and she cut into the leg of the boy's lightweight summer trousers.

She heard a few of the surrounding crowd gasp, heard poor John whimper, heard Elsie Hughes' soothing, quiet litany of comfort, but all it felt very far away. She looked down at the boy's mangled knee and shin, assessing, around the blood and grime, how bad it really was. It was bad, the bone poking through in one spot...but not terrible. He'd not lose it, at least, nor, did she think, it would affect his gait.

However, she needed to stop the bleeding, which was significant. And was going to certainly cause the boy pain. She paused for a second, then removed her jacket. She caught Elsie Hughes' eye, nodded. Pressed down on the wound, as carefully but as effectively as she could. She ignored his scream, and the responding, empathetic ones of the surrounding crowd.

"He's out, m'lady," Elsie Hughes murmured, stroking the boy's clammy forehead.

"Good," she replied briskly. "He needs a break from all of this, don't you think?" The crowd parted again, and she hoped it was the doctor, but she knew not enough time had passed for that to be possible, for someone from the hospital to be here yet. Time slowed down in these situations, if you were lucky and stayed calm. It'd likely only been five or six minutes since this boy flew through the air, landing in this unlucky way.

It wasn't the doctors then, no. Avers had returned with the ice, and some kitchen towels. _Excellent._

"Mrs. Hughes, can you come down here, hold the ice against his leg, right beside his wound?" She didn't wait for a reply. The woman wasn't the sort that needed to be told twice. She looked up, at the circle of worried faces bent over them.

"Mr. Avers, might I have your necktie, please? And a few other gentlemen's?" The strips of fabric were laid in her outstretch palm: a striped, a paisley and two polka-dotted ones.

"Now what, m'lady?" Elsie Hughes glanced up at her, her cheeks pink with the heat of the day.

"We splint it," she replied, setting Violet's cane alongside the boy's crooked leg. It was exactly the right length. She positioned herself, gesturing for Elsie to do the same. "Hold it straight, and steady. I'll tie it on with these, but it's going to take some time to do it correctly." Her eyes stung as sweat rolled down into them, and she brushed her forehead distractedly.

She was fastening the second tie around the makeshift splint when the crowd parted again. And Richard Clarkson was suddenly across from her, next to Elsie Hughes, on the other side of the boy's leg. His eyes moved efficiently over the boy's prone figure, assessing. He pulled his eyelid back, nodded. Leaned over, listened to his breathing, nodded again, a small smile on his face now.

Looked at the two women: Elsie, pressing the ice pack to the boy's joint with one hand, holding Violet Crawley's cane with the other. Isobel, confidently securing the same to his leg, two ties thrown over her shoulder, awaiting usefulness.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he breathed, and held Isobel's gaze for a long moment. "Lady Isobel, can you give me an assessment of the patient? Mrs. Hughes, would you mind terribly trying to find this lad's mother? She works at shop at the top of the street. Tell her to go directly to the hospital. Walk her there, if you need to. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

Isobel watched Elsie Hughes dash away, then filled Richard Clarkson in on everything that had happened in the past fifteen minutes, as they worked together, quickly and efficiently, finished securing the split to his leg with the last two neckties. Two burly men arrived with a stretcher and loaded the lad carefully onto it, then walked him in the direction of the hospital.

The crowd was dispersing now that the excitement was over, some of them stopping at the disabled farm wagon, starting to clear it from the road. She saw the other cyclist, the boy who'd skidded at the end of the hill under the car, being tended to on the curb by a nurse and a younger doctor. He looked as if he'd lost the topmost layer of skin down the length of his left leg, but was otherwise unscathed.

Down the road, she could see Jack Davis standing by the car, and Cousin Violet ensconced in her rightful spot, in the back seat. Jack tipped his hat grandly at her, shaking a fist in the air in a triumphant gesture.

"Your driver is waiting, Lady Isobel," Richard Clarkson finally spoke.

"And _your_ newest patient is waiting, Doctor," she answered. The cool clarity was gone. She felt tired, but proud.

"We both have places to be then," he snapped his bag closed, heaved a sigh. "It'll be messy, but that leg _will_ heal properly, thanks to you."

She knew it; of course she did. She'd said as much to Violet Crawley when she dashed over here. Why, then, did it sound so gratifying, coming out of his mouth? Why did she care, exactly?

"I'm not at all certain about the neckties, but I _will_ get Lady Violet's walking stick back to her, as soon as I can," he continued. She chanced a glance at him. His eyes were dancing with humor, and she felt her own mouth twitching. She burst out laughing, then so did he. Goodness, did it feel grand, to laugh like that.

"How pedestrian, using one's cane to splint a wound," she intoned, and they both laughed again. "That being said, Doctor, I best be off now, as should you. Good day to you." She started walking towards the car, towards a ride full of explanations and asides.

"Isobel," he said, and her breath caught high in her chest. She turned. " _Lady_ Isobel. I know better than most you don't need me to say so, but well done. _Very_ well done." His face was calm now, the laughter from a few moments before dried up. But he was still smiling at her.

She considered for a moment, than spoke before she could change her mind. "If the cane is salvageable, Doctor Clarkson, it makes the most sense for you to bring it to me, so I can ensure that, when it falls into Cousin Violet's hands, it's up to snuff."

She nodded, turned away from him. Kept her back straight and her pace easy, understanding she'd just invited Richard Clarkson to call on her, for absolutely no reason at all.


	13. The Luckiest Ever

**Chapter 13 – The Luckiest Ever**

 **A/N: Yes, the chapter title and number are juxtaposed ironically. ;-)**

When she arrived back at Downton after escorting the nervous, worried Mrs. Willis to the emergency surgery area of the hospital, she discovered the news of the dramatic cycling accident had preceded her. Thankfully, her small but rather thrilling role in the whole incident appeared to still be unknown. She rather liked it that way, knowing full well that everyone at the big house would know by tomorrow morning, latest.

She'd run into Dr. Clarkson on her way out of the hospital, asked him about young Johnny. "It will be an arduous and likely painful process, but I've no doubt the lad will be back on his bicycle by the fall," he had assured her. "The young heal quickly, and have ample motivation to do so. He'll tire of crutches after a much shorter time than you'd think."

"I'm glad to hear it, Doctor. I'll freely admit, I've seen a lot in my years, enough for a few lifetimes, I sometimes think, but I've never seen anything quite like that poor lad's leg," she shuddered, wondering how she'd held it together earlier. She was far from squeamish, but the child's limb had been a sobering sight.

"Well, the boy was lucky, very lucky, that you and Lady Isobel were there, I can attest to that, Mrs. Hughes," he replied.

"I hardly did a thing, just behaved as someone in service does, and should: I took instructions with discernment," she retorted, flapping her hand at him. "By the time I pushed my way in, she was already well on her way to handling the lad herself. And everyone else for that matter." She responded wryly, hoping her admiration for the woman was clear despite her teasing tone.

"Of that, I've no doubt at all, Mrs. Hughes." The doctor's laughter followed her out the door.

oooOOOooo

She stayed on at the big house until Thomas Barrow returned from his jaunt to Ripon right before dinnertime. The man returned dreamy and distracted, a small smile on his face that simply wouldn't completely disappear.

"Alright, Mr. Barrow?" She stopped in the doorway of his study, fastening her hat with quick ease that came with daily practice.

"Very good, Mrs. Hughes," he smiled up at her, sipping a small glass of port. "You're on your way home, then?" He seemed surprised that she was going, perhaps a bit disappointed. "I thought we'd take a glass together. A friend gave it to me today, and I'm rather inclined to share it."

She paused for a moment, really assessed the younger man. And realized she must have been more distracted over the injured boy than she'd thought. Thomas Barrow was positively _beaming_ at her. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him beam at anyone, for any reason, save perhaps the children of the house. Both her soft heart and keen curiosity were clamoring for her to stay and have a quick drink with the man; she _also_ knew Charlie would be waiting for her, and she was already late.

"Mr. Barrow, your offer is tempting enough that I am actually considering invoking the irritation of Mr. Carson," she began and the look on his face decided her. She removed her light jacket, if not her hat, and sat across from her coworker, a man who may very well be becoming her friend.

"Very well, as you rightly point out, a good port should be shared, so you best pour me a glass Mr. Barrow," she grinned at him, and the brilliance of the smile he returned to her was worth a potentially grumpy husband later. After all, Thomas really just wanted a half hour or so of her time; Charlie would have her for the rest of the evening.

oooOOOooo

Charlie wasn't the least bit irritated, or grumpy.

Not only that, but when Elsie turned down the path that lead to their cottage, she saw a tall, familiar, loved figure in the near distance, in rolled up shirtsleeves and old trousers, bent over their side garden in the golden light of the evening.

She reached him unawares; he was singing to himself, weeding a row of carrots with practiced care. Bill Molesley had generously offered to help them plant their flower garden this year, their third summer in the cottage; but it was Charlie who'd decided to grow edibles.

She remembered when they'd first gotten married, the missteps they _both_ had made when it came to the responsibilities – both assumed and actual – of cohabitation those first few weeks and months. Thankfully, they'd sorted it out, and, while she'd never go so far as to call Charlie "progressive" (heaven forfend!) the household duties were shared in such a way that satisfied them both rather nicely.

And her husband was growing _vegetables._ He was _pottering_ in their garden. Something about the sight of him doing so sent a wave of contentment and joy through her.

"It's looking quite tidy, Charlie," she greeted him, and he started, dropped a handful of weeds in surprise.

"Elsie! Is it that time already? Got a bit caught up in it all," he stood up, stretched, grinned at the even, careful rows of sprouting plants.

"It's more than that time, my dear. I'm a bit late, actually," she laughed, admitting her tardiness because it hardly mattered; she was now very glad she'd stayed for a tipple with Thomas Barrow, who, ostensibly wanted to discuss some newfangled hand covering he'd ordered at the notions shop in Ripon, but who'd _actually_ wanted to chat about the new proprietor. Elsie certainly remembered _that_ particular feeling, and didn't mind indulging it in the younger man.

That sense of infatuation, of wondering if the other person could feel what was happening…and realizing you were creating a magic of sorts, between the two of you. Oh, she knew the feeling well. She stepped towards her husband, wanting to embrace him, but he clucked at her.

"Your shoes! They'll be ruined," he chided her. She looked at him for a moment, then stepped out of them. Peeled off her stockings and tucked them inside, placing the shoes by the front door.

"Elsie! Honestly!" His brow furrowed, and she began laughing.

"Relax, Mr. Carson, the neighbors can't see my toes," she walked into the rich soil, squeezing it between her feet, thinking how it felt so similar to sand. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his sweaty shirt, breathing in the rather ripe smell of him. "You need a bath, I think." She snuggled closer anyway. It had been a long, rather mad day, and she was happy to be home.

She looked up at him and smiled. He grinned back down at her, his arms encircling her waist.

"Now you're getting dirty too," he stated, leaned over and kissed her. "I guess we'll both need to freshen up." He wiggled his eyebrows in exaggerated lechery, and she laughed and swatted his arm. She dug her toes deeper into the warm soil, sighed.

"I suppose I should have prepared you a hero's supper, but alas, I've whiled the time away out here," he brushed his fingers across her forehead. They smelled of earth. "I heard about the lad on the bicycle, and you rolling up your sleeves and jumping in. Along with Lady Grey, which ought to be surprising, but isn't. Is he alright, then?"

"He will be, thanks to her," she answered. "I didn't see the accident itself, but saw her fly into action, control the crowd, keep the boy calm and still, and ask for what she needed so precisely, it took my breath away," she paused, thinking back to earlier. "I hardly did a thing, to be honest, Charlie."

"I doubt that, given what all and sundry passers-by have been stopping to regale me with all afternoon," he replied, stroking her cheek again. She could feel he was leaving dirt there, but hardly cared.

"They exaggerate," she answered, then pulled him down for a longer kiss. "Now! What are we eating for supper? I'm ravenous."

He looked chagrined. "I've not prepared anything, I'm afraid, I was so caught up here." She bit back laughter. _My, how times have changed._ No longer the strict household taskmaster and judge, but rather a husband who was mildly embarrassed he'd nothing ready when she arrived home, tardy.

"That's alright, Charlie," she answered. "We'll manage to put something pleasing together. We always do, don't we?"

"We do, Elsie. We do.


	14. A Midsummer's Night Stroll

**Chapter 14 – A Midsummer's Night Stroll**

Thomas wasn't sure, exactly, what was going on. But somehow, he didn't really mind. He felt rather grand, actually.

Though he'd tried to savor every second of his visit to Holmes Fine Menswear & Notions, he couldn't really say, a few hours later, exactly what had happened once he got there. What he remembered most was his streetcar ride to Ripon, his heart pulsing pleasantly in his cheeks, his neck. His stomach fluttering, as if several small birds had taken to nesting low in his belly and were trying to settle themselves. He recalled entering the establishment, which had certainly gone through a refreshing change of layout since the last time he'd been there.

He remembered seeing a few other shoppers walking around, browsing. The young salesman had smiled at him, asking what sir required. He somehow managed to tell the lad that he was there for a custom fitting, and before he knew it, the top half of Clarke's form had popped out of a door behind the counter and waved at him.

Her fair head disappeared once again, and was replaced by the figure of Francis Holmes, who looked so pleased to see him, Thomas, that it was hard to resist the urge to spin around, so certain he was that the generous smile was meant for someone else.

"Ah, Mr. Barrow, I'm very glad you made it in," Francis greeted him. "Let's take a look, then, shall we?" And he'd been led to a corner of the shop, where the other man had asked him, with a gentle look, to remove the glove he always wore over his mutilated fingers. He had, and worry and embarrassment had begun to pool in the pit of his stomach, drowning the happy flutters from earlier.

Francis had taken his hand, ostensibly to measure and fit something new for him, but oh! He was so careful, so gentle, talking cheerfully the whole time. Their eyes briefly met, and Thomas saw something else, something _more_ in the other man's eyes.

Then before he was quite ready for it all to be over, it was. Both Francis and Clarke, who'd come out from the back room, bid him a warm good-bye, with promises to see him at the Lion soon. And Francis had dashed into the back room, pressed the bottle of port into his hand.

"That doesn't seem very sound business, Mr. Holmes, giving away bottles of wine to clients," he teased, just a little. He wasn't ready for much more.

"Ah, you're right of course, Mr. Barrow, but you're a friend, not a client," the words were smoothly professional, but the gaze conveyed far more. And with that, Thomas had left, somehow gotten back to Downton, had a glass of the wine with an amused, friendly Elsie Hughes, and now was sitting here, wondering what came next.

Dare he walk down to the Lion this evening? Was that too forward? Or should he wait? He'd not been in this particular situation before in his life, ever. Attraction, lust, admiration – and all of the things that followed – always ended terribly for him, almost certainly because he looked for them in entirely the wrong places, with entirely the wrong people.

With Francis Holmes…well, it was like he'd been playing solitaire all this time, without realizing it, forcing the cards to play out as he wished, to no avail. Finally, someone was at the table with him. He didn't know exactly all of the cards the other man was holding, but each round, they discovered more about each other.

After Downton's housekeeper went home, Thomas poured himself another glass of port, overseeing the evening's tasks, which, with many of the adult members of the family in London, flowed at a rather languid and easy pace. He addressed a few minor issues that arose, but mostly the staff managed without him.

Around nine, one of the kitchen girls came to his door, poked her head in.

"Mr. Barrow, sir, ye've got someone at the back entrance for you," she said. "He said he's sorry for the hour, but he's brought a delivery for yeh. I told 'im he could come in, but he said he'd wait in the back." The young woman went back to her tasks at the scullery, and Thomas sat there for a moment, his heart pounding.

 _Francis Holmes was at the servants' entrance of Downton, not a hundred yards away._

He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath. Stood, straightened his livery, then headed towards the servants' entrance. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. Francis was standing there, leaning against the low wall, looking up at the cloudless, star-dusted sky. He turned his gaze on Thomas.

"Aren't you a sight," he said, gesturing to his formal attire. "Rather dashing, Thom – Mr. Barrow," he finished, tipping his hat at him slightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he replied, surprised his voice sounded so steady. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Well, I'm ashamed to say that I lied my way in, though I'm not technically in," Francis replied, grinning. "I told the kitchen maid I had a delivery, but your piece isn't ready yet – I need another day or two. I really came to see if wanted to walk to the Lion with me?"

Something struck Thomas, in that moment: _Francis_ was nervous too. Something was happening here, something new for _both_ of them, something they were both trying to navigate. And for all his good cheer and easy manners, Francis Holmes was worried Thomas Barrow would turn him down. But he came here anyway. He took a chance.

And now it was time for Thomas too, as well.

"I would, indeed, Mr. Holmes. However, I do need a bit of time to finish my duties for the evening, and, as you have already pointed out, change into something…more appropriate for the Lion," he finished with a small smile. "I appreciate if you'd like to go on ahead; I'll meet you there within the hour." He regretted having to say the last part; but he did.

"I'd like to wait for you, Mr. Barrow, if I might," he answered, then looked pointedly at him. "And don't trouble yourself for not being able to extend an invitation to come inside. It would complicate things for you, certainly, and possibly even for me. There's no need to complicate such a pleasant evening, do you think?"

"No need a'tall, Mr. Holmes," Thomas' heart sped up at the idea of a solitary walk into town with the man not fifteen feet from him. "I'll not leave you waiting long."

"It's a beautiful evening," Francis responded, lighting a thin cigarillo. "I don't mind in the least." He turned his face back up to the spectacular sky, and Thomas watched his face in profile for moment, then left him, in the hopes of returning as soon as humanly possible.

oooOOOooo

They walked in silence that was charged but comfortable until the graveled walked of the estate proper gave way to packed dirt lanes. The night was clear and bright, with a breeze that felt wonderful to him. He decided, though, that he'd probably feel just as wonderful if it was pouring rain, or if, instead of a warm breeze there was a cutting cold gale blowing through grounds.

He thought of and discarded a half-dozen questions for Francis, deeming them uninteresting or foolish before he could voice them. Finally, he asked,"

"Your uncle, who used to own the shop – are you close with him?"

"You mean, does he know? Yes, he does, and doesn't care one whit, nor his wife, though they are from a generation that seems only to care about policing others' moral worthiness," his voice flowed from easy warmth speaking about his uncle to a matter-of-fact bitterness that Thomas was all-too-familiar with.

"That wasn't what I meant, not entirely, though I suppose I _was_ asking that, in a way," he answered gently, "I guess, what I was really asking, is if you have any family?"

"Other than Uncle Hector and Aunt Di, not many," Francis shook his head. "I've a brother in London, and we were on friendly enough terms until he married. Now…" he trailed off, shrugged. "My mates are my family, which suits me fine. How about you, Thomas?" The sound of his Christian name, now that they were well away from the big house, made her heart soar.

"None a'tall, I'm afraid," he shook his head. "My sister writes, on occasion, but I've not seen her in fifteen years, at least. I've a friend though, at Downton. She was my sister's mate, when we were growing up, and she was always very kind to me, very…accepting. She got into a spot of trouble a few years back, and I am ashamed to say, I treated her rather poorly, I took advantage of the powerlessness of her situation. I was…in a bad place…in my head, in my heart. Nothing felt good anymore, nothing. It doesn't excuse how I treated her, not in the least, but…I just…" he trailed off. He didn't even know _why_ he was talking about this.

They'd reached a long avenue about a half-mile from the outskirts of the village, and the moonlight created dappled shadows. He turned his face a little towards Francis, but the shadows were playing games, making his expression unreadable.

And then: a hand reached out, slid its fingers through his own. He went hot, then cold. They kept walking. At last, Francis spoke,

"You may've treated her poorly, but you just called her your friend: you made amends, then?"

"I did, but it was really down to her…she's really quite an extraordinary, unique person, actually," he laughed, thinking of Phyllis Molesley, her dogged affection for him, no matter what he did or how fiendishly he behaved. "She's…she's the sister I _should've_ had, I think. She just got married, a few weeks ago. I walked her down the aisle." He couldn't help it, the pride and the, yes, love he felt for his friend, coming through in his voice.

"Mates as family," Francis nodded. "Exactly right." They were nearly at the end of the covered avenue, and Thomas knew they'd have to release each other's hands imminently.

"Exactly right. Her name is Phyllis. You'd like her, I think," he answered. "And she'd like you."

"Would she?"

"She would. Because…because _I_ like you," he stopped walking. He pulse was rushing in his ears. He simply didn't know what to _do._ Angst-filled love letters, clandestine meetings under false pretenses, pining after someone who would never, as long as he lived, care for him, or love him, as he desired: he was used to _those_ things, those feelings. But _this._

A man he liked, who was warm and kind and handsome. A man who came calling for him, not in secret, but with appropriate, mature discretion. A man who sought out his hand, held it, as they walked down this country lane.

"And I you, Thomas," Francis turned towards him, their fingers still linked. "Genuinely so, with a part of myself I thought I'd left behind." He heard him sigh. "I feel…I feel too old, to used up by it all, to play about. This feels real to me, whatever it is. So I'd like to treat it, treat _you_ , myself, with the proper amount of respect, if you don't mind." Thomas saw his shoulders go up and down in a shrug.

And because everything Francis had said made him feel like a new person, a _better_ person than he'd been before, he leaned over, pressed his lips briefly against his, thrilling at the wisps of amber-colored beard that tickled them. He backed away, heard the other man sigh. Francis' other hand reached out, brushed against his cheek.

They walked the remainder of the avenue in silence, their fingers untangling, parting ways for now. But as they continued on towards the promise of the Lion, Thomas could almost feel them still pressing his palm, like a glimpse of the future.


	15. All in the Timing

**Chapter 15 – All in the Timing**

 **A/N: Thank you all for your continued reviews and support of this story, which has certainly taken a turn into a very ensemble tale. I am finding my way with some of the "new" characters I am writing, as well the new 'ships. If I've made glaring errors, please point them out. I realized one I've already made, which is forgetting that Dickie moved into Crawley House when he and Isobel married. I've had to change my ideas for this chapter accordingly. (I also forgot the church was so close to Crawley House, but ah, well, I hope you will all forgive me).**

Isobel walked outside Crawley House, happy that the beautiful weather they'd had for the past few weeks was holding. July was getting shaping up to be a corker. She was waiting for Jack Davis to arrive with the car.

She stood there for a moment, looking across the square, dotted with the bustling villagers running early morning errands and chores and heading to visits with friends and relatives, to the churchyard beyond. She'd been to visit Matthew the day after assisting with triage for young John Willis, her incomplete mother's heart aching at the thought of her own son at the lad's age.

As she watched, she saw a familiar figure appear around the side of the church, where the headstones were lined up, like staid soldiers. How Richard Clarkson had been visiting her son's grave regularly, right under her nose, practically, was still a mystery to her.

 _Sometimes we simply don't see what's right in front of us, do we?_ She thought. She wondered, vaguely, what else she'd missed, over the years. It took a moment, but then he caught her gaze. He looked startled momentarily, but recovered quickly. He nodded acknowledgement, and headed in her direction, crossing the square. He was carrying Violet Crawley's walking stick.

"Lady Isobel, good morning," he reached her, his voice pleasant but subdued. He looked like a man getting caught doing something he oughtn't have.

"It is, isn't? A rather beautiful start to July, don't you think, Dr. Clarkson?" She grinned up at him, the tender spot of her heart devoted to her son's memory rubbing against her ribcage. She kept imagining the man before her resting his hand, filled with the skill and ability to save lives, on top of her son's tombstone. Placing flowers there, not solely in honor of her son's memory, but out of respect and affection for his very living mother.

For some reason, she wanted to take away his discomfort at having been caught in the act of being thoughtful. It startled her, suddenly, how much she cared that this man before her was put at ease. For…what, exactly? Admiring her? Carrying a torch for her? _Loving_ her, even?

What struck her, in the momentary lull of banter, was that the tender spot on her heart matched exactly the look on her face.

"I see you've come equipped for battle," she nodded, grinning at Violet's cane. Humor was essential, light-heartedness, key.

"Indeed, I have, Lady Isobel," and now the corner of his mouth tucked up in a grin, partially hidden by his moustache. It was a look she could handle, that teasing regard. The naked melancholy on his face a few moments ago was too much. "I was…was just finishing up, then I was going to stop at Crawley House to drop this off. But it looks as if you're on your way somewhere?"

"I am, in fact, heading over to the Dower House, once my driver arrives, Dr. Clarkson," she smiled at him. "So your timing, you see, is impeccable." She wondered, then, why she felt disappointed. She'd not be able to invite him in, serve him tea. She surprised herself.

"Timing's never been our strong suit, Lady Isobel, so I'll take that as a positive sign," he handed the cane over to her. "Feel free to examine it, but I do believe it's up to snuff. No visible damage at all, I think."

She took a moment to feign studying the cane. She was, in fact, attempting to slow her speeding heart. It had been years since he'd referenced, aloud, his admiration of her. And his words too closely echoed what she herself had thought at the Molesleys' wedding reception. What that, in the end, all that prevented the two of them connecting in a deeper way, set in this years-long dance towards and away from each other – bad timing? Could it be that simple? Was _anything_ ever that simple?

She was pulled out of her reverie by the arrival of Jack Davis with her car.

"M'lady, Doctor," he tipped his cap at both of them, a grin on his face.

"There's your ride, then," Richard Clarkson grinned, his eyes far away. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Lady Isobel. Please send my regards to Lady Grantham."

She was loath to let him leave. She could admit that, at least to herself. "Are you headed to the hospital, then, Dr. Clarkson, or do you have house calls to fulfill?"

"The former, Lady Isobel," the startled look touched and left his face again, as quickly as it had the first time. "I've some patients I need to check up on, including young John Willis, as a matter of fact."

She made a decision, without thinking too hard about it. "I'd like to hear how he's doing, if you don't mind, Doctor. Perhaps…perhaps I can walk with you there, and you can update me on his progress. Davis, meet me by the hospital entrance in about thirty minutes."

They strolled down the street in silence for a few moments, and she gathered her thoughts. "So, Doctor? What of the patient? Will he make a full recovery?"

Richard Clarkson glanced sideways at her; a half-smile back on his face. He looked like a man trying mightily not to say at least a half-dozen things. "I'm hopeful he will, Lady Isobel. He'll have scars, of course, where the bone came through the skin, but I don't see that causing him much fuss, do you? Most importantly, he seems willing, especially for a lad his age, to be patient with recovery – at least for the time being."

"Once he's been in that cast for a few weeks, I bet he'll feel otherwise," she replied drolly. "Let's hope he has the patience to let himself heal, fully, as best as he can."

"Well, we've done what we can for him at the hospital, to the best of our ability," he answered. "Again, it comes down to time, really."

"So many things do, I'm beginning to realize, Doctor Clarkson," she answered. Sighed again. Thinking of Matthew, of Reg. Of Dickie. Of the man walking alongside her.

He cleared his throat, and spoke hesitantly. "I'll not go on about it, lest I embarrass myself – or you, Lady Isobel – but you _were_ crucial in minimizing the extent of the Willis boy's injuries, and in expediting his treatment and recovery. I can hardly go a day without someone who witnessed you in action two weeks ago stopping me to commend you. Have you ever considered returning to nursing?"

"I've not," she answered flatly. There was no point in beating about the bush. "How could I? When my son was the Grantham heir, it was scandalous enough, I can see, looking back on it. Though I suppose the war excused much unusual behavior, no matter one's rank in society. But now…the widow of a baron, the grandmother to Downton's heir apparent? No, it wouldn't be appropriate. Even _I_ can see that, no matter how I personally feel about nursing."

Her fervent refusal seemed to surprise him. "You've not a history for following the established rules, if you don't mind me saying so, Lady Isobel."

"I don't mind you saying so, because, of course, you are correct, Doctor," and now she felt herself smiling as well. "One could even go so far as to say I not only flout established rules, but disregard them entirely, when it suits me. However…I _do_ care about the people behind the rules, if you understand me."

"I do, I believe," he nodded, as they reached the archway entrance of the hospital. Jack Davis hadn't arrived yet. "You would not want to dishonor your role as Lord Merton's wife by taking on responsibilities you'd not, were he still living."

"Exactly right," she answered, her relief more palpable that she expected it to be. It was a fine feeling, to be understood. "And not only Dickie, but George, and Mary…they are my family, still, Doctor Clarkson Who I am isn't only what matters to me, but what matters to the people I care about." She was stupidly close to tears. He looked at her for a long moment.

"I understand, Lady Isobel," he smiled gently at her, though his voice was still slightly teasing. "For a rule breaker, you still have quite the respect for them."

"Not for the rules, perhaps. But for the people behind them. Though, even then, I cannot help myself, from time to time, as you are clearly aware," she shrugged, then laughed. He joined her. Davis had arrived with the car, and it was high time she made her visit to Violet Crawley.

"Please give my regards to Lady Grantham," he tipped his hat at her. "And enjoy the rest of your day, Lady Isobel." He turned from her, heading towards the entrance of the hospital. Once again, the image of him standing at Matthew's grave, solemn and warm, flashed before her eyes.

"Dr. Clarkson?"

He turned. "Yes, Lady Isobel?"

"The next time you are by the church, please do call in for tea. I'd…I'd like that, very much," she finished, not quite believing the words were coming out of her mouth.

"I'd be delighted," he replied, his smile wry, but his eyes warm. And then, he was gone.


	16. The Perfect Fit

**Chapter 16 – The Perfect Fit**

Phyllis was settling her hat on her head, thinking about the day's errands, when Joe popped his head out of the small study he kept off the front hall.

"Where you off to, then, love?"

"Ripon, remember? I need to pick up those covered buttons I ordered from Holmes', as well as a few other things, for her ladyship's coats," she smiled at him, glanced perfunctorily at herself in the hall mirror.

"Care for some company?" He grinned back at her, grabbing his jacket.

"If it's your company, always," she answered, pleased. "But I thought you were working on lesson plans for the fall?"

"They can wait for half a day," he said, placing his cap on his head. "Might I buy you a pub lunch, after your errands, Mrs. Molesley? I don't know the public houses of Ripon as well as those of York, but we can make do, can't we?" He offered her his arm.

"Indeed, we can, Mr. Molesley," she laughed, and they were off.

oooOOOooo

She and Joe parted ways whilst she did her shopping, though he promised to meet her at Holmes Fine Menswear before heading to lunch. With a wink and a brief kiss, he assured her he'd spend the half hour she needed for errands finding the best pub in Ripon.

She could admit to herself, at least, that her interest in the shop wasn't solely professional or practical. No, when she pushed the door open, heard the bell tinkle announcing her arrival, she was thinking of Thomas, these past few weeks. How the worry lines on his face were loosening, fading. How his eyes were often soft and faraway, a small smile on his face, thinking of something, or someone. _Definitely_ someone.

Phyllis was certain she knew who that someone was, though she'd not met the man herself. Yet. She intended to today, if at all possible. Once she was inside, however, she immediately noticed the as-yet-unseen Francis Holmes' presence everywhere in the shop, which she'd only been to several times, and not in quite a while.

It was brighter, more modern, more organized. And he'd smartly added some women's notions, though it was still, primarily, a man's domain. It was relatively quiet in the shop presently, though there was a very young apprentice, his measuring tape snapping crisply, measuring an older gentleman's shoulders and arms by a triptych of mirrors in one corner.

She approached the counter where bins of various buttons and notions were set out behind display counters. The young tailor called out to someone in the room beyond, and a woman in her early thirties appeared. She was wearing one of the most beautiful suits Phyllis had ever seen. She couldn't help it; she stared. She'd seen ladies' pantsuits in the fashion magazines, of course, but never in person, and never so painstakingly bespoke.

The closest she'd ever experienced personally was Lady Mary's riding clothes, but there was, of course, a functionality to those. This...this was just fashion for fashion's sake. Gorgeous, creative and perfectly crafted, for the sake of its own beauty. She realized she'd not spoken, and was still openly staring.

"I apologize...it's your suit," she began.

"Yes?" The female clerk's face which had been open, became tight and professional, her wide, thin mouth a straight line.

"It's stunning," Phyllis finally managed, and the other woman's face broke into a sudden sunny smile that completely changed her bearing.

"Thank you," she replied. "I made it myself."

"You never did! It's so...I love how it maintains the structure of a gentleman's suit, but concedes to a woman's shape," Phyllis could hear herself gushing, almost laughed at herself. She was thoroughly impressed and fascinated, and her excitement rubbed off on the other woman.

"Did you want to see the jacket?" The other woman pulled it off, revealing a crisp, tailored white shirt that was somewhere between masculine and feminine. Her trousers just hugged her hips and were held up with grey suspenders.

Phyllis took the proffered garment, examining the shape and darts, the way the boxy shape of a man's jacket had been slightly altered to fit, but not entirely mold to, the creator's female form.

"Victoria Clarke," the woman was holding her hand out.

"Phyllis Molesley." She shook with the other woman.

"Tom's friend!" Again, the woman's face opened further, grinning broadly. It gave her a boyish air, with her short, platinum spit curls pressed tightly against her angular cheeks.

"Yes, we work together at Downton," she nodded, handing back Victoria's jacket. "But I've known him since he was in nappies. Don't tell him I told you so, though." She wasn't sure what made her tease so easily with this stranger. Perhaps it was her warmth, her obvious, genuine affection for Thomas, which made Phyllis take to her so quickly.

"The sister that should have been." A deep voice from behind her made her start. She turned to face a very nice-looking bear of a man, about forty, with a neatly trimmed dark blond beard and twinkling eyes.

"Francis Holmes," he took her hand, grasped it rather than shook it. He was grinning down at her, half-told secrets in his eyes.

"You're also Thomas' friend," she replied, grinning back at him. "Phyllis Molesley. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes." _Oh, Thomas, at last, you've found this. You found_ him, she thought.

"It's a delight to finally meet you, Mrs. Molesley. Congratulation on your recent nuptials. Do we have the pleasure of serving your husband today, as well?"

"He's not here now, Mr. Holmes, but he'll be here shortly. I'd not wanted to bore him with my shopping, you see," she answered. _Besides,_ she thought. _Besides, I wanted to see you for myself, by myself, without the lovely distraction of Joe beside me._

"The silk-covered buttons, of course! Clarke, could you fetch Mrs. Molsely her order? A dozen each of the mauve, grey, chamomile and sage ones, please."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. If you don't mind me saying, I very much like the improvements you've made to the shop. Absolutely no offence to the elder Mr. Holmes, of course," she glanced around again.

"None taken, nor would the man himself be offended. Uncle Hector is rather progressive, socially, thank goodness," he answered, and she was certain he was considering winking at her. "But he'd gotten rather sentimental about this place, which is understandable. It was nearly like his child, this place. He and Aunt Di never had children, you see," Francis shrugged.

"Except you," she replied. She knew better than most: families could and were created not only by direct bloodlines, but by the looping, weaving, pulling threads of love, affection and devotion.

"Except me, yes," he laughed aloud. "No wonder you are so dear to Thomas, Mrs. Molesley. He called you 'extraordinary' and I can't say he was wrong."

"Mr. Barrow? Did he?" Warmth spread through her, and the tall figure of Francis Holmes suddenly blurred through tears.

"He's quite fond of you," Francis was still holding her hand, and gave it another squeeze.

"Another thing we have in common, I believe, Mr. Holmes," she teased, and her tears were pushed back by genuine happiness. She was startled to see that the man's eyes were also shining with unshed tears. He sighed, looked away for a moment. Then gathered himself, grinned again.

"Indeed we do, Mrs. Molesley," he answered, then pondered something. "Would you – and your husband, of course – care to come to dinner at my aunt and uncle's next week? They've just invited Thomas, and I am sure they'd love to meet you and Mr. Molesley as well."

"We would love to, as long as Mr. Barrow wanted us there," she answered carefully. She would love to get to know this man better, who seemed like a wonderful friend, and possibly, partner for Thomas. But she didn't want to make her friend uncomfortable about his life outside of his role as Downton's butler. He'd come too far, from so low, to jinx it.

"When Hector and Di issued the invitation, he mentioned he'd like to ask you and Mr. Molesley as well. I think he was working himself up to inviting you, perhaps especially where your husband is concerned," Francis' brow creased, the waves in his forehead asking questions his mouth wasn't.

"Joe has no quarrel or concern with Mr. Barrow, not…not any longer," she answered, unsure of how much to say. Thomas had called her 'extraordinary'. She couldn't speak ill of him to this man, whom he cared for so much, even if his trespasses were long in the past, and completely forgiven.

"He mentioned his regrets in how he treated you, in the past," Francis spoke quietly as several more patrons had entered the shop. "If Mr. Molesley disliked him for that, it would be entirely understandable. Especially if he loved you, then." Francis smiled at her sideways. "But Thomas loves you too, Mrs. Molesley. Surely, the two can agree on that, at least?"

"Thomas isn't the person he used to be. Nor am I, Mr. Holmes," she nodded. "And one of the best things about Joe, I think, now, is he takes people for who they _are_ , not who they were. He sees…how Thomas has changed. Once he returned to Downton. Once he took on the role of butler. And now…" she trailed off, simply smiled at Francis.

"So, are you accepting the dinner invitation, then, Mrs. Molesley?" Francis' face was teasing again.

"I believe I am, Mr. Holmes," she answered, smiling.

oooOOOooo

She brought Joe a cup of tea later that afternoon, after they'd arrived home. His head was bent over his lesson plans, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, as if they were about to take flight.

"Thanks, Birdie," he sipped, set his pen down. Grabbed her around the waist. "Did you get what you needed, then, at the notions shop?" He grinned at her. "I mean, besides the buttons?"

She sometimes wondered how so many people thought him a fool for so long. He noticed so much more than even she gave him credit for, sometimes.

"Very well, yes," she answered, running her fingers lightly over his bare head. "Was I so transparent? I wanted a glimpse of Francis Holmes, I admit. And now we have a dinner invitation, to his aunt and uncle's, next week, along with Mr. Barrow."

"Do we, now? _That_ ought to satisfy your curiosity, for good," he grinned up at her.

"You alright with going, then, Joe?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I know you and Thomas get on far better than you used to…"

"Indeed, we do. Once he stopped blackmailing you, he was well on his way to getting into my good books," Joe said with an exaggerated leer, and they both laughed. Then his face became serious. "I can't say I agree with what he did to you, Birdie. It was wrong, very wrong, and I won't apologize for defending you, I won'-"

"Don't ever. No one every stood up for me, the way you did, the way you do. It's one of the reasons I love you, and certainly one of the reasons I like myself. You helped me determine my own value," she hadn't meant to interrupt him, but his unerring, unwavering friendship during her first few years at Downton had helped her discover her own strength. She bent down, kissed him, quickly, but forcefully.

"Well that settles that, no apologies," he grinned up at her, his arms circling her tighter. "But...after…after he…in the bathtub." Joe paused, thinking hard. "It made me think, that. How loneliness can eat you up, can't it? Always being on the outside of things? I can understand that, a little. And…and now he's on the inside, a bit, isn't he? Butler at Downton, which he's always wanted. He's your friend now, truly, rather than your blackmailer. Well, he's different, isn't he? Happier, easier."

"And now there's Francis Holmes," she replied, stroking his eyebrows with one finger. "Does it make you uncomfortable, Joe?"

"What? Why? Oh, I see," he paused, thinking again. "Nah, I can't say it does, Birdie. What's it to do with me? I mean, other than I guess, Mr. Barrow has a right to happiness as much as anyone else, as you or I do. And I am a very happy man, love. I certainly don't begrudge someone else a chance at it, either. Why should I? Besides, you seem rather delighted by it all, so how can I be anything but pleased?"

"Oh, Joe," she sighed. He pulled her down onto his lap, tugging her hair free from its pins. "What about your lesson plans?"

"There's always after dinner," he replied, laughing. "School doesn't start for six weeks, after all. There are more pressing matters to attend to, don't you think?"


	17. A Midsummer's Night Wandering

**Chapter 17 – A Midsummer's Night Wandering**

 **A/N: Just…checking in on everyone, on a summer's night, filled with wishes, some that have come true already, some that are waiting, for the right moment. A rambling, wandering, looooooong chapter, with something for everyone, I hope.**

 **~CeeCee**

She opened the door to their cottage, greeted by the low sighing sound of the trumpet, some American jazz song coming from the Victrola. She heard the accompanying rumble of Charlie's voice creating a soothing duet with the instrumentals. She hung her hat up and walked into the sitting room.

And burst out laughing.

"Heavens! What's all this?"

Charlie looked up from where he was seated at the small round table by the window. She could hardly see the surface, it was so thoroughly covered with old photographs, pieces of scrap paper, lists, ledgers, nubs of old pencils, receipts and paper clips.

"It's….it's a project," he said, and she could see his mind had been elsewhere, focused on whatever it was he was searching for amidst the piles of printed materials. Suddenly, his eyes cleared and he grinned up at her. "You know, I think you'll like what I've been doing, Elsie."

"I often do, though you do stray from time to time," she walked over and kissed the top of his head. Then something by his hand caught her eye.

"Oh, my. Look at that!" She picked up the old, faded photograph, grinning ruefully at a much younger version of herself staring solemnly back up at her, along with a line of other housemaids, like duckies in a row. "That cap! My hair!" She flipped the photo over. A smeared date was written in the corner: "September 1901."

"I know I'm biased, but you look rather fetching in that cap," Charlie mused, taking the photo from her. "Not nearly as fetching as you do _now_ of course, but never mind that." She swatted him lightly, but then really took in everything on the table. Dozens, no _hundreds_ of photographs. Of the staff of Downton.

She grinned down at him, picked up a photo at random. A tea party on the lawn, in the 1880s, she thought. Before her time at the grand house, certainly. A tall, dashing young footman with a head full of dark waves and a very recognizable crease in his brow caught her eye. She brushed her fingers over the image of the Charlie that had been, then turned her attention back to the Charlie that was.

"Something rather democratic. I think you'll be rather pleased with me, Mrs. Carson," he cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I spend so much time as docent talking about the house, the grounds, the title, and of course, the Crawleys. I decided I wanted to delve into the _other_ history of Downton, the downstairs history. _Our_ history."

"What a fine idea," she answered, her voice soft. She stroked his cheek. "I'm rubbing off on you, I'm afraid, Mr. Carson."

"You are, and I mind not in the least," he pulled her down into the seat beside him, handed her another photo. Her heart leapt into her chest. "That one's my favorite so far." He said softly.

"I see," she answered.

It was a group shot, taken on that beach in Brighton four years ago. Had it really only been four years? There were over twenty people in the picture, Downton staff, smiling at the cameraman. Joseph Molesley had been caught, doubled over laughing, his hand on Thomas Barrow's arm. Beryl Patmore had been captured with her mouth slightly open, saying something to Daisy beside her. And she and Charlie, at opposite ends of the line of people, were frozen in time smiling wryly over everyone's heads at each other, twenty feet away from each other.

It had seemed a difficult distance to cover, back then, that day she'd held his hand at the water's edge. And yet – here there were.

"A history of the staff…and of us, Mr. Carson."

"Something like that," he grinned, then leaned over, kissed her lingeringly, over the scattered memories, some remembered and some forgotten, of their long lives together.

oooOOOooo

Isobel left the modest brick house on the village side street, happy to be back out in the beautiful summer evening, the sky still sapphire rather than midnight blue, though she knew it was close to eight o'clock. She turned towards home automatically, taking her time, in no rush to be there. Because, after all, what exactly _was_ there, these days?

She shook her head, as if to loosen such gloomy thoughts. It wasn't like her at all to be so pensive. She always thought of herself as quick: to think and to act, and to discard what was unnecessary. She'd always been that way, but now she wasn't as sure.

She didn't have her place, anymore. Or rather, her place in the village wasn't the same as the place she lived in, in her own self. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

"Lady Isobel!"

She turned slowly, though her heart was pounding. Only one man addressed her in that exact way. Dr. Clarkson was jogging towards her, his satchel in one hand, a smile on his face.

"Good evening," he smiled down at her, his breath audible. "Might I ask what brings you to this neighborhood?"

"Good evening, Doctor," she smiled back at him as they started walking towards the village square and Crawley House. "I hate to admit it, lest you think I was checking up on your professional ministrations."

"You were visiting young John Willis, then," he nodded, and she felt no surprise that he'd guessed her intent immediately. "He's doing well, don't you agree? He's already discarded the crutches, foolish lad." He shook his head, but he was smiling.

"The break is healing well," she nodded, but her mind wasn't on the now-cheerful and talkative boy she'd ministered to last month, in the dusty street. "And, as you say, he's in good spirits."

"I feel as if there's some sort of condition to your praise, though?"

"No, it's not that, not at all," she sighed, glanced over at him. He was watching her face intently, and she realized, suddenly, that his attention didn't make her uncomfortable; on the contrary, she was flattered and pleased by his concentration on her words.

"What then?"

"I shouldn't have called on them, I think. It was…a mistake."

"I certainly don't mind, as long as you're approving of the work we did," he laughed a little, but examined her countenance closely. "And I am sure they were pleased by your visit. Honored, even."

"But why should they be?" The words came out harsher than she expected. But it didn't make her question less earnest, or true. "They needn't have made a fuss over me, but they did, of course. You're exactly right."

Richard Clarkson stopped, looked hard at her in the fading light. She could see the town square ahead. A small part of her wanted to run from this conversation, literally, run. _How ridiculous. It would be the talk of the town, Lady Grey, amok on the streets of Downton!_

And she started laughing. Because it really _was_ ridiculous. The whole thing. Lady Grey!

She thought of Reg, calling her Izzy. Of changing gore-stuck bandages during the war. Of Matthew, dear, sweet boy he'd been, pressing his face into the crook of her arm when he was very tired. Of befriending, and truly loving, a Dowager Countess; but also wondering about the friendship she may have had with Elsie Hughes, had their lives crossed paths earlier.

"Shall we, then?" His voice startled her. So did its gentleness.

"Indeed, we must carry on, Dr. Clarkson," she answered. "You've never fussed, have you?" _Over me, no matter what anyone else has called me._

"You'd not stand for it, so it seemed prudent not to," he shrugged. "Lady Isobel." He added, pressing the title ever-so-slightly.

She resisted the urge to swat his arm. "Indeed, it would not have been."

They reached Crawley House sooner than she wanted to. It was far too late, far too inappropriate, to invite him inside, she knew.

"Good night, Lady Isobel," he tipped his hat at her, started down the walk.

"Heading home, Doctor, after a long day's work?"

He turned back around, surprise clear on his face. "I'm not, actually. It _was_ a long day, so I'm going for a pint at the Lion, the new pub, down that way." He gestured.

"Yes, the Red Lion," she nodded. "I hear it's quite different than The Grantham Arms."

"Yes, quite," he nodded, and faced her, about ten feet away. It was dark enough now that his face was hard to read. "Though I suppose I usually leave before things get particularly…interesting. And I've not yet been into the snug in the back."

"It sounds fun," she said, embarrassed at the longing creeping into her voice. "Another place where my presence would make people uncomfortable, I suppose."

"To the contrary, Lady Isobel," he shook his head, and now she could see he was really smiling. "The Lion is an…equalizing…sort of place. People take you as they find you, no matter who you are, out here."

"How extraordinary," she answered. She meant it.

"Dare I ask, then, Lady Isobel? Do you care to join me?" His face clearly showed his own surprise at asking her.

She wasn't ready. Not quite yet, not after all the bowing and scraping at the Willis household. "Not tonight, Doctor Clarkson."

He sighed, grinned wryly. Tipped his hat at her again and turned to leave.

"However…however, I can promise you, if you ask again, the answer will be yes."

"And I know you to be a woman of your word, Lady Isobel, good or bad," he replied. "I'll hold you to that." And with that, he wandered down the street, and she watched him, until he disappeared into the evening.

oooOOOooo

"Birdie?"

"Joe."

"Do you believe in luck?"

He stroke her unpinned hair. She tucked her head into the crease created by his arm and torso, pulled the bedsheet over her shoulder. It was still early enough, and light enough that the now-familiar shapes that made up their bedroom were bathed in cool blue moonlight coming in from the window.

"I'm not sure," she answered. "But I feel like the luckiest woman in the world sometimes, so I'm _also_ rather contradictory, love. Hopeless, really. Do you?"

"I do, I think," he answered, and she glanced up at him, as always, adoring the furrowed thought lines that waved across his forehead. He was so earnest, her Joe. "I don't really know how else to explain life, sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…take ourselves, for example," he started, and she heard the scholarly tone creep into his voice. "Aren't we, lying here together, on this lovely summer night, a prime example of extraordinary good luck?"

"I suppose you have a point," she rolled toward him, propping herself up on one arm. "But…Joe. Aren't we here because of the time you took? The time we _both_ took, all along, to know each other, care for each other…?"

"Yes, love, of course, I see your point," he stroked her cheek, her hair. "And I'm sure you'll think I'm mad for what I'm about to say: that the Bateses terrible _bad_ luck was balanced out by our exceptional _good_ luck."

"You're right, that's mad," she deadpanned, and he wrestled her down, rubbing her bare shoulder, gently pressing his thumb along the line of her clavicle.

"Bear with me," he breathed. "Because…because if it hadn't been for that awful business with Mr. Green, with Anna in prison, and Mr. Bates' false confession, we'd never have gone to York."

"Yes, well, York was special," she sighed. What an odd, mad thing to say, that trudging through the cold and snow, pub to pub, looking for an innocent man's alibi, could be special. But it was.

"It was, Birdie, it really was," he answered. "I fell in love with you there."

"Did you?"

"Well, we're here, aren't we?" He laughed.

She laughed with him, kissed him soundly. "Yes, well, Joe, we are. But I meant…that was when it happened, for you?" She thought back, wondering when she knew she loved him. It seemed to her as if she always had, which was utter nonsense, she knew.

"You're right, you know," he leaned over her, stroking her face. "I likely loved you long before then. I know I admired you, deeply. And that – that – your friendship was the most important thing in my life." He paused and she sighed. "But it was outside The Golden Phoenix, of course. When I realized it. What luck could do, bad luck turned to good."

"Maybe you're right, Joe," she pulled him down, towards her. "And we had good luck left over, for Bates."

"Birdie, we have enough good luck for a lifetime, maybe two," he whispered, and then, for a long while, they spoke no more.

oooOOOooo

The moon was high and serene in the sky. Thomas understood the feeling.

He and Francis had left the Lion early, for them. They usually shut the place down, and then stayed for the lock-in, more often than not. As forthright as they had been with each other, it had remained unspoken these past few dizzily wonderful weeks: the Lion was safe, the Lion was a place where they could dance and chat and laugh and smoke and drink, spend hours on end with each other, without anyone caring or taking note of it.

But. They were not _alone._ Not completely. They'd not really been entirely alone since that night a few weeks ago, under the canopy dappled in shadows. Until tonight.

When Thomas arrived at the Lion tonight, Francis had greeted him with a lingering embrace, a kiss by his ear…and an invitation. To come back to the little brick home where he lived in the village. He had said yes before the words left the air around them.

They walked together silently, their footfalls crunching in the gravel. It was late for the village, and the town was quiet.

"Hector and Di are looking forward to meeting you," Francis finally spoke, grinning at him as he tossed his cigarette away. "They're pleased your family's coming too."

Thomas laughed a little. "If you'd told me that Joseph Molesley would be referred to as my family a few years ago…"

"He doesn't seem a bad sort. He certainly loves Phyllis, doesn't he?"

Thomas shook his head. "You're right, of course. The thing about Mr. Molesley, is he used to play the fool, because that's all the world told him he was, until Miss Baxter came along. Then he started listening to her, and to himself."

"You better be careful, you almost sound like you admire him, a little," Francis laughed, but his face was gentle.

"I suppose I do. I understand what he did, why he changed…." Thomas trailed off. His heart pulsed almost painfully in his neck. "I'm starting to do it, myself. For good reason." He caught Francis' gaze.

"We're here," Francis said softly. Thomas' pulse roared.

They went into the sitting room, which doubled as a study. It was a welcoming space, one wall lined with books and fashion folios, the furniture made of dark brown leather. A heavy globe perched on its own stand, a small statue of a bird about to take flight, on another. Francis put a record on, something soft and slow, on the Victrola.

"What would you like?" Francis' question cut through Thomas teeming thoughts.

"I don't know," he didn't mean to sound so worried. But he was. He didn't want to blunder, or handle this wrong. It meant too much. _Francis_ meant too much.

"I meant to drink, Thomas," Francis smiled at him, then pushed him gently down onto the loveseat. "Whiskey?" He nodded, and Francis turned away from him, walked to a small bar in the corner. Thomas' mind was racing.

Francis came back and handed him a glass with two inches of the ocher-colored liquid in it, sat down next to him. Thomas felt every place where their bodies touched. He finally decided something, and spoke:

"Francis."

"Yes, Thomas?"

"I'm…I'm very glad I'm here. That you invited me here, to you home."

"But, you don't know what you want?" Francis sipped his whiskey, his warm thigh pressing against Thomas'.

No, I do know what I want," Thomas set his drink down and turned to face the other man. "I want you. Very much. What I _don't_ want is to muck it all up, you see?"

Francis' face broke into that warm, generous smile that made his heart stop. "You won't muck it up. Because…because we have _time_ Thomas. This is my home, and we two are the only ones here." He shrugged. "There's no need to rush, or worry, or hide - or hurry, unless we want to. It's up to us, not the rest of the world, and isn't that grand?"

"It's more than grand, it's perfect," Thomas' heart had slowed down, thudding with languid determination. He moved closer to Francis, ran his finger along his cheekbone. Other than that brief walk a few weeks ago, any signs of affection or attraction between them had been in the decidedly easygoing but decidedly public venue of the Lion's snug. Thomas felt too old and too foolish – and liked Francis far too much – to snog him in the middle of the back room lounge, for all to see.

So when their lips met this time, it wasn't a brief touch, fluttering then gone. The kiss went on, as wonderfully slow and languid as Thomas' heartbeat. Francis' fingers traced along his temples, ran through his hair. At last, they parted.

Thomas looked at him, saw desire and affection and wanting and regard on the other man's face. No one had ever looked at him like that before, not all of those things, at once. He leaned over and kissed Thomas again, briefer but still sweetly, then he stood, extended his hand.

"Dance with me?" Francis grinned down at him, and he remembered their first meeting at the Lion, last month. Had it only been a month, not quite? He stood, and Francis wrapped his arms around him. Thomas lay his head against his shoulder, breathing in the heady smell of him, whiskey and cigarettes and fabric starch.

The moon winked down at him from the window, smiling. He knew exactly how she felt.


	18. Sunday Morning Musings

**A/N: Loooooovvelies! So glad you enjoyed the ensemble last chapter. I am doing it again (though perhaps less thoroughly) in this chapter. Thank you so so much to all of my guest reviewers (looking at you, Suzie!) since I cannot answer you directly. I really appreciate all of your thoughts and interest in this story. ~ CeeCee**

Elsie sat in her office, the door ajar, listening to the easy, Sunday morning activity in the hallway and kitchen beyond. She sipped at the tea Mrs. Powell, the new head cook, had made for her. It wasn't as good as Beryl Patmore's had been, but, to be fair, Mrs. Powell deserved more time to get it quite to Elsie's liking.

She didn't, as a rule, work Sundays, but Charlie was here today, running a largish private tour a group of amateur historians from London booked months ago. It would be rather nice to take lunch with him later in her office, and walk home together this afternoon. She was hoping to corner one of the scholars later today. She wanted assistance with a surprise for Charlie, for his project…

Besides, Mr. Barrow, who'd hardly taken four hours off together since he'd become butler, had asked for today off. Elsie smiled a little to herself. She hoped he was enjoying himself, whatever his plans were for the day.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Hughes!" The cheerful greeting surprised her. Phyllis Molesley was standing in her doorway.

"Mrs. Molesley! Whatever are you doing here today?" The lady's maid _also_ didn't work Sundays, generally speaking.

"I didn't realize you were here, either, Mrs. Hughes, until I saw Mr. Carson upstairs," the younger woman smiled. She was still often reserved, but there was an easiness about her, since her wedding, that permeated her countenance and bearing. Marriage agreed with her, it seemed. "Her ladyship wants to sort through wedding attire options for Mr. Branson's wedding after church services today, so, here I am."

"At last _that's_ settled. I thought he and his lady editor would leave everyone hanging with bated breath eternally," Elsie rolled her eyes, and both women chuckled. She was actually delighted for Tom Branson, who was too young and too passionate and too giving to live a single life. Miss Edmunds certainly wasn't Lady Sybil, but that was alright, wasn't it? She was kind, she was sharp, and she was utterly devoted to Tom Branson, and to Miss Sybbie.

"Do you suppose he'll move to London? With Miss Sybbie?" Phyllis mused.

"Nothing is certain, but I don't think so, Mrs. Molesley," Elsie shook her head. "Last I heard, Lady Edith was discussing expansion of her publishing empire into quaint Yorkshire, it seems. Which I'm glad of, as I don't mind admitting, I'd miss both of the Bransons, were they to leave Downton."

"As would I, Mrs. Hughes," Phyllis nodded. "And Mr. Barrow would so hate to see Miss Sybbie go. He adores the children so."

"He does indeed," Elsie nodded, smiling.

"Have you seen him today, Mrs. Hughes? Mr. Barrow?"

"Oh, he's the day off, Mrs. Molesley," Elsie replied. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The other woman's face broke into an enormous smile. "He took the day off, did he? Thomas Barrow, dedicated butler of Downton, left his post for an _entire day_?" Playful mischief danced in Phyllis' eyes, along with secrets she seemed dying to share. Elsie helped her a little.

"He did indeed, Mrs. Molesley. I hope he's enjoying his time off," Elsie sipped her tea again, trying to hide her own smile. She was a _professional._ But she couldn't help but think of the superficially innocuous glass of port she'd shared with Thomas a few weeks ago, when he'd not gone more than three sentences without mentioning the name "Francis Holmes" during the course of their entire conversation. He'd said nothing of consequence about the man at all, but told her everything she needed to know with the expression on his face.

"I've no doubt of it, Mrs. Hughes," Phyllis seemed unable to stop grinning. "And I've no need of anything at the moment; I was looking for Mr. Barrow to see if he'd like to ride the street car to Ripon with Mr. Molesley and I, later this afternoon. We're all having dinner at a friend's house this evening."

"That sounds delightful, Mrs. Molesley. I'll be sure to pull a nice bottle of red from the cellars for you to take for your hosts," she paused, then couldn't resist. "I'm certain of two things – you'll have a lovely evening, and there will be a least one or two attendees with the surname 'Holmes' at your dinner."

"I believe you're right, Mrs. Hughes. Undoubtedly."

They both exchanged a glance, and laughed.

oooOOOooo

For a moment, when he first opened his eyes, he was thoroughly confused.

This was not his bed. This was not his room, certainly not.

And then it all settled on him, like gently falling rain: where he was. He sighed, and smiled. Relished the warm weight of Francis' arm across his torso, the heavy, sleeping pulls of breath from the other man's lungs. A tear slipped from his eye, a bit maudlin but oddly welcome, and he brushed it away carefully, trying not to disturb his lover's sleep.

He moved himself closer to Francis, who responded instinctively by holding him more tightly. Thomas looked around the room, so different than the generic sleeping quarters at Downton, which, even with numerous personal touches, weren't quite the same as a real bedroom, in a private house.

Though Francis had only taken over the shop in Ripon half a year ago, and bought this house in Downton village at the same time, his personality was firmly stamped on the space, which was decorated in deep, warm colors. Several detailed sketches featuring menswear hung on the wall, along with a formal portrait of a slightly younger Francis sitting with a couple in their early sixties, the man an older, darker version of him, the woman reminding Thomas forcefully of Elsie Hughes, if only for the playful, knowing grin tilting her mouth.

 _Uncle Hector and Aunt Di_ , he thought, and muffled his chuckles. Never in his wildest imaginings had he expected to be sitting a dinner table with a lover and his family, being introduced as such. With _Joseph Molesley_ , of all people. And yet, there it was: tonight, he would be.

He couldn't help it. He laughed out loud.

"What so funny? Was I snoring?"

"No, not at all," he turned and faced Francis, who left his arm draped around him. "It's…dinner with Uncle Hector and Aunt Di. Bit surreal, if I'm honest."

"Are you having second thoughts, then, about going?" Francis' voice was light, but Thomas could see his eyes darken. He knew the other man was bracing himself for disappointment and hurt feelings.

"I'm not, I'm having _first_ thoughts. When you asked me, I was so…flattered? Surprised? Stunned? I just said yes, without thinking." Thomas laughed, stroked Francis' beard. "Well, without thinking anything other than it would be another chance to spend time with you." He saw the effect his words had, though he was self-conscious saying them. Francis' eyes brightened.

"Well-recovered, Mr. Barrow," Francis kissed him, briefly but deeply, then stood. "Tea? Coffee? The maid only comes on Mondays and Thursdays, but she's left a side of ham, and I can boil eggs and make beans toast. Though that, I'm afraid, is the extent of my culinary prowess."

"Coffee, please, but I can help –"

"Stay there. The shop's closed today, of course. I've Clarke and two of the junior tailors working on the orders for this week, so we'll be in fine shape tomorrow morning at opening time. We've nowhere to be until dinner tonight, as far I can tell, which is precisely…nine hours from now. There's no rush, you see."

"I'm not used to so much free time," Thomas sat up a little, leaned against the headboard, taking in Francis' mostly unclothed form, framed by the doorway. He grinned. He couldn't help it.

"Nor am I, but I certainly don't mind it," Francis shrugged and grinned back. "I'll make coffee, then?" His disappeared towards the kitchen.

"I'm sure we'll sort out something to do," Thomas called out and closed his eyes, deeply contented, as Francis' laughter answered him from the house beyond the cozy bedroom.

oooOOOooo

"Jack, I think I'll get out here," Isobel instructed her driver.

"M'lady?" Davis stopped the car in the middle of the graveled lane, halfway between Downton and the village. He turned around to glance at her in the back seat, puzzled but grinning.

"Don't _you_ look at me like that, Jack, you're nearly all I've left on my side," she teased. "I'll walk the rest of the way home, then, as it's such a beautiful morning."

"Very well, m'lady," he opened the door for her, helped her out. Tipped his cap at her. "Rather a fine choice, if I do say so, Lady Grey."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Jack," she smiled up at him. "But had I set out from Downton back to the village on foot, the lot of them would have looked at me like I was Elizabeth Bennet, tromping through six inches of mud on her way to Netherfield."

"I'll see you at 5 o'clock, then, m'lady? To take you to the Dower House?"

"Yes, Jack. I'll not scandalize Lady Violet by walking to dinner." He laughed, and she watched the car disappear up the road ahead of her. She turned around, briefly gazed at Downton, proud and tall on the far horizon, then spun forward again, and began walking into to town.

She was still on the estate proper, and passed a few of the outdoor staff, who tipped their caps at her with friendly yet openly curious looks. Once she'd reached the edge of the property, passing through a shady canopied line of trees, she was quite on her own.

And then she heard it. The singing, coming from the path that joined up with the main one she was on, a pleasant male voice with a distinctive Scottish burr:

 _"I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan' lassie,_ _  
I could sit an' let her tease me for a week,"_

Richard Clarkson, most certainly. She stopped, entirely uncertain as to what she should do. She couldn't see him, for the scrim of trees separating the paths from each other. And he'd certainly not heard or seen her, or he'd not be singing with such unadulterated gusto.

 _"For the way she keeps behavin' well, I never pay for shavin',_ _  
'Cause she rubs ma whiskers clean off with her cheek…"_

She clapped both hands over her mouth to prevent the laughter from bubbling out. _Like Elizabeth Bennet in more ways than one today, aren't you, Isobel? Accidentally running into admirers on country lanes at inopportune times._

Now why on earth had she just thought _that_? Why did she care if the good doctor admired her, or not? It hadn't seemed like a good idea a dozen years ago; she'd made that clear to him, hadn't she? Why had her mind categorized him as such?

Maybe it wasn't so clear to herself, anymore.

 _"I'm enchanted, I'm enraptured, since ma heart the darlin' captur'd,  
She's intoxicated me with bliss..."_

And suddenly, they were at the place where their two paths met, and his lusty, unselfconscious singing tapered off. He cheeks reddened, but otherwise, he seemed unembarrassed to be caught serenading the day.

"Lady Isobel! Good morning to you."

"Don't stop singing on my account, Dr. Clarkson," she smiled at him as she reached his side. "It was rather pleasant, the song you were singing. A traditional Scottish tune, I am guessing?"

"Yes, indeed it is," he grinned at her. "I got a little carried away, I think, aside from the fact I thought I was quite on my own for the moment. I was…persuaded…to sing a few rounds of the same last night, at the Lion. I suppose the enthusiasm it was met with quite went to my head."

"You're making me regret I didn't join you, Dr. Clarkson," she answered, surprising herself.

"I've not forgotten what you said, however, Lady Isobel," he grinned sideways at her as they approached the outskirts of the village.

"Nor have I," she replied, and, for once, decided not to overthink things. "When do you suppose you'll next patronize this fascinating establishment?"

He stopped, gazed at her. "Lady Isobel, no disrespect implied, but are you actually agreeing to have a drink, with me, at The Red Lion?"

"That I am, Doctor," she answered, the continued before she could really consider what she said next. "I'd not mind a place, where I can be myself, whoever that is. I don't know if I'm entirely sure anymore."

Why did she feel like crying?

Briefly, so quickly she wasn't completely sure if she really saw it or not, his face softened, his eyes grew warm and open. Then, the grin was back, the teasing sparkle in his eye.

"Well, I suppose I could escort you there Saturday next," he answered. "However, you'll have to learn the song, Lady Isobel."

They began walking again. She reached out and took his arm, tucking her hand into to the crook of his elbow. It felt good. It felt _right._ The pleased surprise on his face sent something stirring high up in the hollow of her chest.

"You better start with the first verse, then, Dr. Clarkson."

 _"I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan' lassie,_ _  
If you saw her you would fancy her as well…"_


	19. Surprises, Big & Small

**Chapter 19 – Surprises, Big & Small**

 **A/N: I appreciate when reviewers call me out on anachronisms, like SUNDAY SHOPPING BANS in the UK, ahahaha, of which I was utterly ignorant. I've gone back and edited references to open shops in the foregoing chapter (I wanted it to be Sunday, for a few reasons, so I've left that). So, thank you, guest reviewer, for your note. Another reviewer pointed out some non-canon dialogue between Richard and Isobel in the chapter with the cycling accident, and I've adjusted that as well.**

 **I want these characters to sing off the page (screen?) and constructive feedback is always welcome! So many thanks! ~CeeCee**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: The segment with Francis and Thomas (after the Chelsie bit) delves into physical violence Francis faced previously, at the hands of his father, as well as references Thomas' suicide attempt. Skip ahead if you need to.**

There was a knock at the door of her office, one she knew all too well. One that made her a bit nostalgic, for days long past. There was a time, a very long time, where that special knock could send her heart fluttering with unresolved and unspoken feelings.

"Come in, then," she answered it, and grinned, setting the last bit of work aside, such as it was. It had been a quiet, easy day, for which she was grateful. With Mr. Branson's upcoming wedding, she knew, things would get hectic once again, all too soon. "Hello, Charlie, how was the tour?"

Her husband's large frame filled the doorway, and he grinned back at her as he entered the room. "Rather fine, I think, Elsie. I've not had a group so thoroughly entranced in quite some time. They were a gratifying audience to speak to, I'll say that." He sat across from her, handed her several sheets of folded paper. She took them, tucked them into her drawer with a smile.

"Dare I ask? One of the tour attendees, a Mrs. Olive Winter, requested I pass those on to you," he inclined his head, a curious look on his face.

"I'm indebted to Mrs. Winter for this, I'm sure," she replied, and said no more. Once she had delved into the resources the historian had provided, her next step was to gather and sort the information properly. It would take time, but she hardly minded. After she had everything right, or as right as it could be, she'd talk to Mrs. Molesley. She'd need her skills with a needle and thread, certainly.

"Elsie."

"Charlie?"

"Is that all I can expect to hear on the subject, then?"

"For now. Life doesn't hold too many surprises, at our age, my dear. And I rather think you'll enjoy this one. I really do," she answered, trying not to laugh at the consternation wrinkling his brow. "Now, Mr. Carson. You promised me lunch, and the Arms should even now be opening for the midday meal. I've been waiting ever-so-patiently. Shall we?"

She stood, grabbed her hat. She was affixing it when he stood and walked over to her.

"What have you planned, then, Elsie?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, Mr. Carson."

"It doesn't seem fair, somehow," he answered, his voice rather petulant. She laughed.

"Doesn't it? Says the man who secretly bought a house in both of our names. Says the man who planned a wonderful honeymoon, at a small cabin by the sea, without a word to his betrothed." She grinned up at him, stood and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Yes, but you were unaware of those surprises. This, this – you're just teasing me," he responded, opening the door and ushering her into the hallway.

"I'd think you'd be used to it, after over thirty years or so," she retorted, and he raised an eyebrow at her. She rolled her eyes in response.

"Let's have lunch. I'm ravenous." She kissed his cheek again, took his arm, and they were on their way.

oooOOOooo

It had been one of the most important days of his life, nearly as important as the day, not so long ago, when Phyllis and Elsie Hughes hauled him out of that tub, with its blood-tinged water. It was a fundamental feeling, not something to be verbalized, but something _felt_ , at the center of himself. His life was changed, now. Today.

He and Francis had eaten a cobbled-together breakfast, drank coffee, talked endlessly, made love again, talked more, sometimes teasingly, sometimes, in earnest. About everything. Things that Thomas had thought he'd never speak of to anyone, like the war, like that day in the bathtub. But he'd laid it all out for the other man, who'd nodded, stroking the knotted scar tissue, the truncated fingers he nearly always left covered up. Then gently caressed the sharper, straighter scars across his wrists, which told a story of deeper despair with their stark slashes.

Francis revealed more, too, including the story of the last time he'd seen his father: a proud man, the hard-working patriarch of his family. He could not handle who his son was, and Francis could no longer handle pretending to be anything but himself.

"He hit me," Francis whispered, his face turned away. He roughly swiped at his tears, and Thomas took his other hand. "No, that's not right, nor is it entirely true. He _beat_ me, and my mother watched him do it. And at first, I let him. Then I realized, if I didn't fight back, he'd probably kill me."

He paused, took a shaky breath. "Not intentionally. But I realized his anger and frustration and _hate_ was too large, enormous. More than he could handle. So I fought back. It was instinct, I just wanted to get _out,_ to live. That was all that mattered."

He held Thomas' gaze, and finished. "The last time I saw my father, he was laying on the floor of the family sitting room, his nose broken, his face covered in blood, calling me an abomination, screaming at me to take myself and the devil I'd brought into his house out, and never come back. So I listened to him."

And then, they didn't speak for a long while, each tentatively exploring the other's physical scars, and more importantly, the ones unseen, buried underneath the years and the politeness of society outside of this room, this house.

Later, when they'd roused themselves properly and thought of the dinner party ahead of them, Thomas was suddenly struck by something.

"Francis! I've nothing proper to wear to your aunt and uncle's," he considered his options, thought of wearing his too-casual outfit from the evening before, crumpled and currently scattered between the sitting room and bedroom. Of rushing back to Downton, which held even less appeal at the moment; he wasn't expected until this evening. Francis' beautiful clothes wouldn't do; he was taller, and much broader, than Thomas was.

Francis turned and let out a great belly laugh. "Thomas, you daft man. Whose house are you in? If I've nothing appropriate for you somewhere in my closet or trunks, I best throw in the towel as a tailor, oughtn't I? At worst, I could quickly fix something of mine to suit you."

"You'd do that?"

"Well, Mr. Barrow, I don't usually work on Sundays, and require at least a week's notice for private consultations. But I suppose, in this instance, I can make an exception."

They both laughed.

oooOOOooo

"You are rather dull this evening, Cousin Isobel," Violet Crawley's teasing voice snapped her back to attention. She wasn't sure about being dull, but she was certainly _distracted._

 _I love a lassie, a bonnie Hielan' lassie,_ _  
She can warble like like a blackbird in the dell.  
She's an angel ev'ry Sunday, but a jolly lass on Monday…_

She couldn't shake the tune; it'd been playing in her head all day. Nor could she shake the rather pleasant sound of Richard Clarkson's tenor voice, singing it with gusto. She wondered, briefly, if she was going a little mad. It was a nice feeling, if that's what was happening.

"How kind of you to say so, Cousin Violet," she raised her eyebrows, sipped the _digestif_ Spratt had brought to them in the sitting room.

The other woman gave her _the look_ and sipped her own drink. Isobel knew there would be more. With Violet, there always was. She'd stop, but only when she was satisfied, and it wouldn't necessarily be a direct route to then answers. Isobel didn't mind.

"This is a difficult time of year for you," Violet began.

"It is. Every year. I don't suppose that will ever change," she thought of George's sixth birthday, which was approaching at the end of the summer. Of that wonderful, terrible day he'd been born. But Violet knew, better than most, her distraction wasn't about Matthew. It was just her way, of working towards the correct subject.

 _She's as modest as her namesake the bluebell._ _  
She's nice, she's neat, she's tidy and I meet her ev'ry Friday…_

"But this year has been particularly difficult, I think, has it not?"

"If you're referring to Dickie, Cousin Violet, then I'll assuage your concerns further: I am adjusting just fine to being a widow again. Likely far better than I deserve to be," she shouldn't have said that last bit.

Violet's eyes sharpened, her face softened. She really _did_ care, and despite their vast differences, she'd become a grand friend to Isobel.

"There are different sorts of marriages, Cousin Isobel. Not all of them require full mourning," Violet cleared her throat, and continued. "You and Lord Merton were married only briefly. It's natural and entirely appropriate that you recover from his loss far quicker than you did with Dr. Crawley."

"Well, Cousin Violet, I am glad to hear you say that, though, of course, I already knew as much," she sipped her drink, wishing for something stronger.

She thought of Reg, in the early days of their marriage: how, after a particularly grueling day in the surgery, he'd pour them each an obscenely large Scotch, wiggle his eyebrows at her. She laugh, and drink half of the glass in one gulp. How she and Dickie had never taken a drink of anything stronger than champagne together.

She wondered what sort of drink she'd have with Richard Clarkson, at the alluring Red Lion, five days hence. Something between a Scotch and champagne, she guessed.

"How was your walk with Dr. Clarkson this morning?" Violet questioned, with the air of a good hostess changing the subject to less complicated, lighter topics. Except, of course, she knew _exactly_ what she was doing. She had known, all along, the reason for Isobel's distraction.

Isobel hadn't been ready for her to strike, not quite yet. She was taken off-guard, and choked a little on her port. She recovered, but it was too late. She set the small glass aside, cleared her throat.

"Well, it was just fine, actually. We met along the lane heading back into the village from Downton, and he kindly escorted me back to Crawley House," she attempted to calm her racing heart.

"How good of him," Violet replied, her face still free of guile. "He's always been rather good to you, has he not, Cousin Isobel?" She didn't allow for a response, but continued on. It was because she didn't need one. "And how good of him to return my walking stick to you, there's not a bit of damage on it, that I can see."

"No, it seems all accounted for, indeed."

"Cousin Isobel," Violet's voice was gentle.

"Cousin Violet?" She held the other woman's gaze; to look away would be to admit something she wasn't ready to admit.

"I was wondering if you could help me with something?"

"Of course, just ask, Cousin Violet."

"I'm trying to remember the lyrics to an old folk tune, if you can imagine that. A Scotch tune, bless us, of all things. Heavens! Why on earth would I be thinking of that?"

Isobel said nothing, but seriously considered taking Violet's intact cane and whacking her with it. It was time to go home.


	20. At Uncle Hector and Aunt Di's

**Chapter 20 – At Uncle Hector & Aunt Di's**

 **A/N: I've really been itching to write this chapter. And the next one, when Richobel visit the Lion. After that, I've got an elaborate Chelsie-centric chappie planned. Thanks for taking this ride with me, you guys, it's really fun! ~ CeeCee**

Phyllis was having a delightful time.

Francis Holmes was as charming as he'd been when she'd met him in his shop, but even warmer, easier, at the home where he'd spent so much time, where his relatives who loved him so well lived. His aunt and uncle welcomed everyone into their modest but rather beautiful home, a place where Phyllis could see everything had been selected with care, significance and consideration, but wasn't showy in the least.

When she and Joe had arrived, they were greeted by the friendly, young maid-of-all-work the Holmes' kept, and she ushered them into the sitting room, which was buzzing with jolly conversation, the inhabitants talking over one another goodnaturedly. Their hosts welcomed them enthusiastically, as did their nephew, who took her hand in that way he had, kissed her cheek and exclaimed,

"Phyllis Molesley, the Extraordinary!" And winked at her, turned towards Joe with a hearty handshake.

"Mr. Holmes," her husband greeted him, "Good evening. And you'll get no argument from me with that assessment."

"Please, call me Francis. Otherwise, I'll think you're talking to my uncle."

"Francis, then. And I'm Joe."

"Good evening, Mr. Molesley, Mrs. Molesley," a warm, soft voice she could hardly reconcile with Thomas Barrow interjected, and she turned to greet him. And the breath was taken out of her. He looked so well, so happy, so at ease, so _handsome_ , but in a way that was coming from inside rather than out. He had always been a good-looking man, but so haunted. No longer, though.

"Thomas," she finally spoke, feeling the other two men watching them, but concentrating on her friend before her. She hadn't meant to use his Christian name, not without asking him. But she couldn't help it.

"See, she's already dispensed with the formalities," Francis stage-whispered to Joe behind her. Phyllis heard but didn't care. "It just required a minimal amount of encouragement."

"I'm so glad you could come, Mrs. Molesley," Thomas looked down at her, took her hand, glanced over her shoulder at the other men.

"None of that, not here, not tonight," Francis interjected. "She's Phyllis, and the only honorific you may add, if necessary, is 'the Extraordinary.'"

"That suit is beautiful," she finally said, touching the sleeve.

"Francis' work," Thomas' eyes flitted away from hers for a moment to land on his lover's, then back again. She leaned in, kissed his cheek, whispered,

"I'm so happy for you."

Then she backed up, to where Joe was standing, and Francis came around to stand beside Thomas, who stared warmly at her. _As it should be._ She squeezed Joe's arm, and he turned his head, grinned at her. Kissed her forehead.

"Drinks, then?" Francis finally spoke, and turned to the rest of the gathered group, which in addition to the elder Holmeses, including Victoria Clarke from the shop, who greeted Phyllis warmly, and Sally, a woman with short, dark hair and a rosebud mouth turned up in a devilish smirk.

"Extraordinary," Joe breathed next to her, low enough for only her to hear, as Francis fixed drinks and the others chatted boisterously.

"Pardon?" She grinned at him.

"You. Thomas. This dinner party," Joe smiled, looked quite pleased. "But mostly you." He turned and winked at her, and they joined the fray, already laughing.

oooOOOooo

This day was almost over and he felt it ending with more than a little regret.

 _How many perfect days is one allotted in life? Three? Five? Ten, perhaps, if he or she lives very long, or very luckily?"_

But he shook his head and grinned. _This_ day was ending, yes, but he felt, at last, more like it would follow _. At last._ It was a grand feeling, and it made him realize how long he'd been struggling and fighting to make it through each day, just one, without feeling mentally and physically knackered, for so very long. He was tired right now, yes, but is a good way, a great way. Maybe the days ahead wouldn't be perfect, necessarily, but they'd be something to look forward to.

Dinner had been a splendid affair, with lots of enthusiastic conversations and debates, ranging from politics to jazz music, and everything in between. Francis, Hector, Phyllis and Clarke actually got into a lively disagreement about fabric until the other four insisted that stop, alright? The rest of us don't care a whit about thread count! And everyone had laughed and changed the subject.

At one point during the main course, he'd felt a smooth palm on his hand, and turned. Diane Holmes was seated next to him, her fingers resting lightly on the back of his. Now that he'd spent the evening in her company, his realized his comparison to Elsie Hughes had not be too far off. Oh, she looked very little like Downton's housekeeper; she was taller, larger, fairer. But she was many of the things Thomas appreciated in his coworker: kind, no-nonsense, democratic with a wry sense of humor to season all of these.

"Thomas," she said, taking a sip of wine.

"Diane," he answered.

"I'm very glad you're here."

"I'm very glad to _be_ here, Mrs. Hol – Diane," he nodded at her, chuckled. _Old habits…_

"I rather like you, Thomas Barrow," the older woman stated, and he couldn't help it; he laughed out loud.

"That's very kind of you, Diane Holmes. I rather like you, too, so far."

"So, you're reserving judgement, then?" Her grey eyes sparkled at him over the rim of her glass.

"Pardon?"

"You said 'so far'. Indicating that your fondness for me might change at some point."

And now he really laughed. "I've spent too much of my adult life hedging my bets, it seems. I have to get used to taking life – and people – at face value."

"Exactly right, love. Take people at face value, good and bad. Hector and I –" at the mention of her husband's name, she glanced over at him, her countenance open and full of love. "Hector and I, 'twas something we agreed upon the moment we met. When people are – can be – themselves, you get to the truth, the heart of them, much more quickly. They tend to be kinder, too."

Her words took the bottom of the world he'd always lived in. He had lived and worked at one grand house or another for over twenty-five years. His life was almost solely comprised of artifice, most days.

"You look as if I slapped you, Thomas," Diane's eyes were sparkling again.

"Well, Diane, I'm the butler of a grand country estate. If everyone took your advice, as wise as I think it is, I'd likely be out of a job," he retorted dryly.

Diane's laugh was so hearty, that even the others paused for a moment to smile at her.

"Frank!" She called down to her nephew at the other end of the table, who turned his head towards her inquiringly. "You best bring Thomas to supper every Sunday from now on. I have a feeling he'll be needing it."

The rest of the group chuckled and went back to their dinners, their conversations, their debates. Francis held Thomas' gaze down the length of the table, his eyes warm. He lifted his glass, toasted him with a grin.

 _Yes_ , Thomas thought. _I could certainly get used to this._

oooOOOooo

After dinner, they all moved back into the sitting room. A round of after-dinner drinks were poured, and both Francis and Clarke were debating on whether or not to push back the furniture and get the Victrola going when Thomas wandered towards the back door of the residence.

Di had taken Thomas on a tour of the modest house when he and Francis had first arrived, and he knew there was a pretty little back garden behind it. He didn't remember much of the details of that first look-see, as he was nervous nearly to the point of nausea when the two elder Holmeses greeted them in the front hall. It wasn't long, of course, before their easygoing manners put him at ease, but those first few moments were still a blur.

He walked outside and realized he wasn't the only person taking a step outside. Joseph Molesley was crouched over some large white flower or the other, examining it closely. He stood when he heard the door open, turned to smile at whomever it was.

"Mr. Barrow," he said, walking over. "Don't mind me, I want to tell my father about some of the flowers they've got here. A lovely little spot, isn't it?"

"You're breaking the rules already?" Thomas teased, wondering if the other man would cotton on. It was interesting…yes, he was poking fun, but the sharpness that had always been there was gone. What had Di said, at dinner? That being able to be yourself, it made people _kinder._ Was that what was happening to him? Had the barbs and sharp edges he'd been comprised of most of his adult life just been…protection?

"What do you – ah," Joe nodded, grinning. "Right then, 'Thomas' it is, then."

"Care for a smoke, Joe?" Thomas offered him the packet, knowing that the other man didn't smoke regularly as he did, but he'd seen him do so, on occasion. And, strangely, he wanted to offer him something.

Something in Joe's face told him he understood. He took it, and for a moment, they stood in silence, inhaling, both men gazing around the yard in the deepening twilight. Thomas finally spoke.

"Thank you – and Phyllis – for coming tonight," he didn't, couldn't look at the other man. This was hard, but he pushed through. "It…it means something. To have people here. _My_ people here, I mean." Joe Molesley was hardly _his_ person, but Phyllis was. Phyllis belonged to both of them, and Joe was willing to share in that. He was more grateful than he expected to be about it.

"Of course," Joe replied, looking mildly surprised.

But Thomas noticed something: underneath the surface inanities, if you looked, and Thomas _was_ looking now, there was a sharpness in the other man's eyes he hadn't thought possible. Joe Molesley was a bit of a fool sometimes, but, it seemed, less and less so as they years went by.

"It's been a rather lovely evening, don't you agree, Thomas?" He asked, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Besides," he gave him a sideways grin. "I'd not been allowed to say no, or Birdie – Phyllis – would give me the what-for."

 _Birdie._ Thomas shook his head. _Funny, how we think we know all there is to know about certain people. Funny how wrong we are, most of the time._

"It's been an excellent day all around, Joe," he answered, and was surprised at the softness in his own voice.

"That is has, Thomas. That it has."

"Aha! There you are!" Francis was in the doorway, grinning at them both. "Joe, your wife is requesting your presence in the sitting room. Clarke and Sally have been teaching her the Charleston and she's determined that _she_ teach _you_ a dance, for once, rather than the other way 'round."

"What she doesn't know is, I already half-know it," Joe stubbed out the cigarette, winked at both of them. "You gentlemen will keep my secret, won't you?"

He and Francis laughed, Francis catching his eye, his grin broadening.

"Thank you for the invitation, Frank," Joe held out his hand, and the two men shook heartily. "You and your aunt and uncle, the lot of you. What a lovely home, and a lovely night, and lovely company." Joe's forehead wrinkled; he was considering something, as he looked at the two of them. "The pair of you ought to come to dinner at ours next week. Thursday, maybe? I can act like I have to run it by Bi – Phyllis, but we all know she'll be in raptures, so what's the point?" And with a shrug, he went inside to find his wife.

"Joseph Molesley! Well that was rather kind –" Francis' jovial voice exclamation cut off as he looked over at him. "Thomas?"

He was rooted to the spot, looking after Downton's former footman. He could hear Joe Molesley's greeting of the folks in the sitting room, women's laughter, the tinny sound of the Victrola. The evening buzzed with insects, crickets singing their reedy song. Francis came over to him, put a warm hand on his shoulder.

"What is it?"

Thomas felt them coming, but couldn't stop them: the tears. He felt so _foolish_ , so exposed, but his former coworker's casual, friendly invitation to he and Francis had blindsided him. It had been without pretense. It had been deeply _kind,_ and it embarrassed him in a way he hadn't thought to be, until now, about his past behavior, to a lot of people, not just the Molesleys. The Bateses, especially Anna. Daisy Mason. William…

"Thomas?" Francis wrapped his arm around him, stroked his hair. "Are the Molesleys _that_ bad of cooks?"

He joined Francis in laughing, though his was tinged with a little hysteria. He dried his eyes, lit both of them cigarettes. They stood there, facing Di's beautiful garden, shoulder to shoulder, quiet for a moment.

"I've been a right prat for a long time, Francis," he finally said. The words hurt coming out.

"Well stop then, won't you?" Francis slid his fingers through Thomas'. "Don't really care for prats, sorry." The other man squinted at him through the cigarette smoke. "And I care for you quite a bit, so."

He turned his head, grinned slyly at Francis. "Alright then, you've convinced me, Mr. Holmes."

"Brilliant," Francis answered, and squeezed his hand. Thomas squeezed back.

They stood there, not wanting the night to end. But knowing that there would be more like them to come, like the stars scattering themselves across the night sky.

oooOOOooo

"Birdie, I've gone and done something without permission," Joe's voice cut through her thoughts, as they made their way back to their house.

"Have you?" She smiled at him, swung their linked hands. "What a beautiful night." She sighed.

"You don't seem fussed then," Joe replied, pretending to be put out.

"I don't feel fussed, not in the least," she answered, giggling. "Are you going to tell me, Joseph Molesley, or not?"

"I invited Thomas and Francis to dinner at ours, this Thursday," he replied, and she stopped short. "I thought I could bake some more bread and –"

She cut him off with a kiss, then looked at him, up close. Swallowed away the lump in her throat. "You are the best man I know, do you know that?"

"My bread isn't _that_ good, Birdie, thought I am impr-"

"Oh, stop, you." She swatted him. "Joe, really. I mean it. It was very good of you to extend the invitation to them. Thomas is –"

"Thomas Barrow makes me think that there's some truth in the phrase 'a changed man,'" Joe interrupted her gently. "And while Francis seems to have brought about the biggest change, it was happening before him too, Birdie. If only in the way he treated _you,_ love. Day and night, from when you first came to Downton."

"Well, I'm looking forward to having them over, so thank you," she answered, and took his arm again as they walked on.

"Anytime, love. Maybe you'll have the Charleston down by then, too," he grinned at her, and they laughed, happy but tired, after such a fine summer evening.


	21. Half-Remembered Love Songs

**Chapter 21 – Half-Remembered Love Songs**

The Red Lion was everything she expected, and more that she didn't.

She and Richard Clarkson walked over in the deepening twilight, making light conversation that hadn't anything to do with anything of import, which was rather fine with her. Her focus was split between two things as they strolled through the summer evening: anticipation of arrival at their destination and how distractingly well the good doctor looked, casually dressed for the evening, his light summer shirt open at the collar, his customary bowtie conspicuously absent.

And now, here they were. She had expected the casual environment, how folks who usually wouldn't interact outside of these rooms conversed and greeted each other warmly, like old friends. What she hadn't been able to conceive of was the _honesty_ of the place. Richard Clarkson had said it so well: people found you as you were, and accepted it, no questions asked.

It took a minute or two to adjust, as it was the opposite of her life outside that bright crimson door, but the Lion and its clientele weren't in a rush. With a wry look, her companion escorted her up to the bar.

A young barkeep, wearing a loose blue blouse and tweed trousers held up by red suspenders, her dark hair piled haphazardly atop her head, nodded and grinned at them as they approached

"Rich! Evening! You singin' for us tonight, then?" The woman poured a whiskey and set it before him, then turned to her. "And for you, love?"

Isobel choked back laughter. The barkeep was thirty years her junior. _'Love', indeed._ She cleared her throat, not entirely sure what was going to come out of her mouth, and said, "Something between a Scotch and champagne, please."

The woman behind the bar burst into sunny laughter. "Excellent, right. Why don't the pair of you take that nice corner table there, and I'll bring it over in a mo'?"

"Thanks, Jenny," he took his drink and glanced over at Isobel as they moved to the spot the bartender had gestured to.

"Did she just call me 'love'?" Isobel grinned at him.

"Welcome to the Lion, Lady Isobel," he answered, sipped his drink.

"That won't do, will it?" She replied, her heart suddenly pounding. She realized, like a slap in the face, this evening wasn't about idle curiosity, or her recent restlessness, her loneliness. No, there was something else going on here, and she realized she _wanted_ it to be going on. Never mind, the doctor was looking at her questioningly.

"Pardon?"

"I can't be 'Lady Isobel' here. It's ridiculous," she shook her head. "Please feel free to use my Christian name whilst we're here, Doctor."

"Very well, Isobel," he leaned back, sipped his drink again. "And I'll make the reciprocal offer, though please feel free to address me as you most feel comfortable."

She hesitated only a moment before answering him. "I'll take you up on that, Richard." It was easier than she expected, calling him by his first name, after all this time. All these years. Something in his face shifted and he held her gaze for a long moment.

Suddenly, the bartender was upon them, with a cocktail glass filed with murky amber liquid, a sprig of something green floating atop it.

"Here you are then, love, something between a Scotch and champagne," she set the drink before Isobel.

"I thank you, Jenny," she responded and sipped it. "Delicious." She meant it. It was exactly what she wanted, what she needed, right now. "I'm Isobel, by the way." She offered her hand, and they shook.

"Nice to meet you, Izzy," Jenny replied. "Do you sing as well? Can we expect a duet later, Rich?"

"Hardly," Isobel answered, trying mightily to not laugh. "Though I expect Richard will regale you all later with a few traditional tunes."

The pair of them watched her navigate her way back to the bar. Then she caught Richard's eye and they both started laughing.

"I can't decide which was better, or worse," she finally said, sipping her drink again. "But don't get any ideas, now."

"Even at the Lion, I don't expect I'd ever address you as 'Izzy', you can be assured of that, Isobel," Richard replied. "Nor 'love', at that." He answered, his voice teasing, but she noticed his look was contemplative. As if he actually _wasn't_ quite sure. As if there may be, at some point in an until-now-uncontemplated future, where he might call her one, or both.

She wasn't so sure herself, anymore.

oooOOOooo

They sat there for a while, in their rather well-situated corner table, watching the place fill up, again, chatting about nothing noteworthy. It never became too crowded; the patrons seemed to have an unspoken sense of when to shift themselves from room to room. She noticed that many of them, especially, but not limited to, the younger folks, would have a round of drinks in the front, then disappear behind the heavy red curtain at the back, into the private room beyond.

It was a fine spot for viewing as well as a fine spot for not being viewed; she saw several people she knew as the evening wore on. That didn't surprise her. What did was that all of them simply smiled and nodded at her as if she was expected, even welcome, here. Thomas Barrow arrived with a group of people, including the handsome haberdasher from Ripon; Septimus Spratt from the Dower House (which _did_ stop her heart for a beat, but the man merely grinned at her and turned towards his friends); the green grocer and his wife; the only person that gave her more than a perfunctory glance was her driver, Jack Davis, who arrived with a pretty blond on his arm around nine o'clock. He caught her eye and tipped her a wink, then carried on towards the snug in the back.

Shortly thereafter, the singing began, begun with Jenny, who had a startlingly beautiful alto voice that had half the room in maudlin tears after a few numbers. Before she began her third song, she turned towards their table and shouted

"Yeh're next, Rich! Yeh need to prop all these fine people back up after I take the wind outta them!"

Richard tipped his finger at her as she began to sing her final song, then turned to Isobel.

"You don't mind me abandoning you for a few tunes, do you, Isobel?"

"On the contrary, I'm rather looking forward to it." She meant it.

"That's kind of you to say," he answered, drained his second drink. "I don't often go back to where I grew up, but I can't help loving the old tunes." He paused then looked over at her, seemed to consider something. "They remind me of wife."

Isobel's heart caught in her throat. "Pardon?"

"I was married, Isobel, was I was little more than a lad, and she a lass. Her name was Sorcha. She was lovely, but more than that, she was kind, and her mind was as keen as the edge of a knife. She died, a long time ago. She was only twenty-three years old," his finished softly.

"I didn't know," she was trying to sort it all out.

"How could you have? I never said," he shrugged. "It was forty years ago, Isobel, and you are not the chronicler of my life, are you?" He smiled gently, and she recalled what she'd said to him at the Molesleys' wedding reception a few weeks ago.

"How?" She couldn't help herself, thought she should have.

"Childbirth," he sighed. "And I couldn't save her, or our wee _bairn._ "

She looked hard at him, her breath caught high in her chest. He had been a father, or almost had been; that lost baby would have been the same age as Matthew. _If they were both still alive,_ she thought, thinking of him standing at her son's graveside. Wondering where his own child was buried, so very far away.

"I apologize. I shouldn't have said, not here, not tonight," he sighed, looking at her closely. "It doesn't make me sad, not any longer, you see? Sorcha was full of fun, full of life. I _like_ remembering her. She couldn't carry a tune a'tall, bless her," he laughed. "She used to tease that I'd have to sing the babe to sleep, lest she terrify him…"

"And you never remarried," she answered.

"Nae, I never remarried," he replied. "We only had a few years, Sorcha and I, but they were lovesick, mad, wonderful years, do you know?"

"Yes, I do. I do know, Richard," she answered, thinking of Reg. Of her love for him, especially in those early days, being drunk on it, practically.

"I never remarried, though I contemplated it a time or two, since," he stood up, as Jenny and the gathered crowd were calling to him now. He gazed down at her, and she felt a flush run through her, up and down the length of her.

 _Of course. Of course he had._

oooOOOooo

He brought the house down with a few mildly off-color love songs, like the one she'd caught him singing in the lane last week. She was rapt watching him. He had a pleasant voice, yes; that she already knew. What she hadn't know was he was a bit of a _performer._ And the crowd at the Lion _adored_ it. Where else in Yorkshire could a Scotsman sing to his heart's content, unbothered?

He paused dramatically before his final song, and the crowd whistled and catcalled. There were shouts of "Donald!" and "Trousers!" He raised his hands, and nodded at the crowd, settling them, a smirk tilting his mouth under that mustache of his. She stood, almost unaware that she was doing so.

Then he began singing again.

 _"_ _I've just come down from the isle of Skye  
I'm no very big an' I'm awfully shy  
The lassies say as I go by…"_

He paused dramatically, and the crowd roared its response:

 _"Donald, where's your trousers?"_

She burst out laughing, though the sound of her mirth was overwhelmed by the rowdy whoops of the crowd. He was looking over at her in any case, as he started the second verse, as if there weren't dozens of shouting pub patrons between them. As if they two were the only ones in the room.

oooOOOooo

The night was nearly over. She was surprised at how regretful that made her.

They walked back towards Crawley House, a short enough stroll, and she felt as if both of them were taking their time, stretching the evening out. They were back outside now, out of the raucous safety of the Lion, back to Lady Isobel and Dr. Clarkson, but loath to let go of Isobel and Richard just yet.

They reached her front walk too quickly.

"Thank you, Lady Isobel, for such a lovely evening," his doffed his hat at her. He gazed at her for a long moment, then took her hand, bent over it and kissed it. She felt the tickle of his mustache, wished she could see his face.

"You are very welcome, Dr. Clarkson, though I feel that _I_ am the one who owes _you_ thanks," she replied, then grinned at him. "If for the performances, only."

And while he was chuckling, she did something that shocked and please both of them: she moved quickly towards him, and kissed his cheek. Then stepped away, as if she'd never done so. His face was soft and open, and he let go of her hand reluctantly.

"Good night, Lady Isobel," he nodded.

"Good night, Dr. Clarkson."

She stood there, in the summer night, watching him go. Very glad that the staff that she kept would be long asleep, as she told her housekeeper there'd be no need for them once she returned. And yes, she was capable of undressing and bedding herself, at least for one evening.

It was time to retire, it really was, but she couldn't quite bring herself to go inside yet. She wasn't tired, in any case. She stood there, staring up at the starry sky, the moon grinning down at her, grey clouds drifting swiftly by.

She thought of Reg, of how besotted she'd been with him, all those years ago. Of a woman named Sorcha who would forever be young, still beloved by a doctor in his sixties. Of Dickie Merton, dear, sweet Dickie, who had been such a gentle, wonderful friend to her, whom she _had_ loved, in a rather polite and controlled way, yes, but it had been love, nonetheless.

She thought of the drink Jenny had brought her, somewhere between Scotch and champagne, something delicious and new and unlike both of them. Something _just right_ for the woman she was now.

And, finally, of that moment in the Lion, catching the doctor's eye across the room, being smacked with the reality of it: she was in love with him.

She was in love with Richard Clarkson.

She didn't feel giddy or mad with it, no. Nor did she feel…polite…about it.

Like the cocktails she'd been drinking tonight, it felt delicious and new and just right.


	22. Another Rainy Day

**Chapter 22 – Another Rainy Day**

 **A/N: I've given Chelsie the short shrift in this story, where they are ostensibly a primary 'ship. I adore writing them, but Richobel and, mostly, Thomas and Francis' budding romance, distracted me quite a bit. I've really enjoyed creating this as an ensemble piece. In any case, this IS an Elsie chapter, with lots of Chelsie fluff and sweetness. Another rainy day, as the thunder rumbles outside my own window as I write. ~CeeCee**

Elsie's eyes popped open, her mind already thinking ahead, excitedly organizing her day. She rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed. It was raining, as hard as it had the morning of the Molesleys' wedding nearly six weeks ago. Her errands today would, in fact, end at the newlyweds' house, as she needed to go over her plans with the talented seamstress to see if what she imagined in her mind's eye could become reality, with lots of skill and some hard work.

She certainly planned on giving it her best to make it happen. But, first, she had an appointment in York with –

"Where are you off to, already? It's Sunday, you've the day off, don't you?" Charlie's voice behind her, rusty with sleep. He sat up, kissed the place where her neck and shoulder met, and she sighed.

"I do, indeed, have the day off, and I plan to make good use of it," she turned, stroked his cheek.

"May I offer a few suggestions?"

She laughed. "Oh, I know what you've in mind, Mr. Carson, and I'm certainly not against it; but I've got a day full of appointments, my dear, so you're going to have to spend most of the day batching on your own, I'm afraid," she softened the news with a long kiss.

"In one breath, she announces she's abandoning me, all the while enticing me," he shook his head, addressing the air.

"Ye've got a tour this morning, I know, at the house. Perhaps Mrs. Powell will take pity on you and feed you lunch, if ye're pleasant enough," she teased him. "Maybe you can even take lunch with Mr. Barrow, whilst you're there. You know he appreciates the encouraging word every now and then, so don't be too stingy to offer it, Charlie."

"As hard as it is to say, sometimes, Elsie, he's doing a rather grand job of running Downton," he replied, pulling her back down onto the bed. She rested her head on his broad chest. "His way is not my way, but his education in service has been steeped in tradition; I can feel that he's got sound groundwork to build upon."

"Aye, that he does, and he's got a younger man's eye towards the future. And he's as dedicated to the family as you were, _are_ , even if it's in different way. I can tell you that much, Charlie, from working with him nearly every day," she smiled a little, unseen by her husband. Thomas Barrow had always seemed grateful, perhaps _too_ grateful, in her humble opinion, for the most senior position at the grand house.

However…the man was changing, for the better, every day, and it was something to watch: Thomas Barrow, falling in love. Elsie'd yet to clap eyes on the man yet, and nothing explicit had transpired in her conversations with Downton's butler, but she'd stayed a fair few extra half-hours these past weeks, and Francis Holmes' name came up frequently over half-glasses of port in Thomas' study.

Thomas' happiness, contentedness, infused everything he did, from his job to his interaction with others. He was so much _easier_ , so much gentler, than even she had imagined he could be. And it made him better at his job; he clearly loved his role at Downton, but it wasn't all he had in life. No, not anymore.

"I'm…I'm rather proud of him," Charlie mused. "Is that inappropriate to say?"

She propped herself up, looked right at her husband, her heart warm. There was so much about Thomas that set Charlie's teeth on edge. It was one of the kindest things she'd ever heard him say about the younger man.

"You ought to tell him so," she murmured, leaned over, kissed him by the ear.

"Elsie. It would embarrass us both, far too much. You know that," he replied, his hand shooting out, lightning-fast, and unraveling her braid.

"Stop, you," she grabbed his hand, which only trembled a little this morning, and kissed the palm lingeringly. "It may embarrass you both, but the pair of you might feel rather grand afterwards, too."

"We shall see," he answered. His tone was brisk, but she could see his dark eyes, working. He was considering it. "Do you have time for tea and toast, at least, before you go? On your mystery errands?"

"I do, indeed, if I make them now," she sat up, moved herself towards the edge of the bed again –

And was immediately pulled back down into his large, warm arms. She yelped. "Charlie! Do ye want tea and toast, or not?" She was laughing. He buried his face into her loose hair, mumbled.

"Ye'll have to speak up, Mr. Carson, I canna' hear ye," she teasingly pressed on her Scotch accent.

"I said 'tea and toast can go hang'," he lifted his face up, his hair mussed, his face serious. "You've taught me enough in the kitchen that I can muddle my way through breakfast alone. The alternative, however…not possible on my own."

She laughed again, and he bent to kiss her.

oooOOOooo

She boarded the tramcar later that afternoon, her mind a jumble of facts and dates and names, some familiar to her, some half-remembered and others so new that that sounded like a forgotten language. She hugged the large portfolio Mrs. Winter, the amateur historian from Charlie's tour a few weeks ago, had organized for her enthusiastically, and poured over with her at the library in York.

"I must say, Mrs. Carson, I can't help but be interested in your project," the other woman had grinned at her over the half-moon of her glasses. "Genealogies are fascinating, in and of themselves," she paused, laughed a little. "I think so, at least. But what you're undertaking is something more creative. Something…."

"Democratic?" Elsie supplied, grinning.

"Exactly right," Olive Winter chuckled. "And I'm sorry it took so long, but some of those names came from a bit a'ways from Yorkshire!"

"Well, though it was long ago, Mrs. Winter, _I'm_ from a bit a'ways from Yorkshire, though it's home, sure enough, now," Elsie replied.

"It's an awfully fine gift, this, for your husband," the historian replied.

"Well, between you and I, Mrs. Winter, he's a rather talented gift-giver. This is just my attempt to one-up him, show him I'm up to the challenge."

The both laughed and walked out of the hushed building together. Before they parted ways on the street, Olive Winter touched her sleeve.

"You're off to see the seamstress now, then, right?"

"Yes, indeed. She works at Downton as well, and there are few as skilled as she is. She's kindly offered her services to me."

"Would you – only if it's possible, of course – would you allow me to see the finished product?" The woman's enthusiasm was genuine.

"Of course! If I can get it together, that is! Fingers crossed!"

And now Elsie grinned, rested her head against the window as the headed back towards Downton Village, back towards home. She was going to do everything she could to complete this project, for Charlie.

oooOOOooo

Joseph Molesley answered his front door wearing an apron covered in flour. There was a fair amount on his trousers as well. Elsie could smell the tempting aroma of baking bread wafting up the short hallway behind him.

"Mrs. Carson! Come in, please! I've just been baking and –"

"It smells marvelous, Mr. Molesley. What a man of many talents you're turning out to be," she chuckled, removed her hat.

"Mrs. Mason gave me some pointers. Daisy, too. It's rather fun, I've found," he shrugged, grinned unselfconsciously. "Birdie! Mrs. Carson is here, love!" He called behind him and Phyllis Molesley appeared at the end of the hall, smiling in greeting.

"Mrs. Carson! I hope the weather hasn't made things too difficult today?"

"Nae, not at all, Mrs. Molesley, and you're my final stop before heading back to Downton, in any case. I'll not melt in that time, I don't think," she grinned.

"Let's go into the sitting room, and you can show me what you've in mind," she answered. "It sounds like a rather wonderful, and very thoughtful, gift for Mr. Carson, if I may say so, Mrs. Carson."

"I certainly hope it's well-received, Mrs. Molesley, that our work isn't all for naught."

"I'll bring you ladies some tea and some of the rolls I've made, shall I?"

"That's awfully good of you, Joe, thank you," the other woman beamed at her husband, and he hurried back to the kitchen. Phyllis caught Elsie's eye, and Elsie did her best not to giggle. "You'll not escape today without trying his baking, Mrs. Carson, I can promise you that. On the bright side, it's rather delicious."

And Elsie couldn't help it – she joined Phyllis' laughter as they headed into the sitting room.

oooOOOooo

The two women had their heads bent over the square table in the corner of the sitting room for quite some time after Joe left them with two cups of tea and a platter full of bread. Elsie showed Phyllis the information Mrs. Winter had helped her ferret out, and then Elsie careful sketched what she had in mind.

"Oh, Mrs. Carson. This is…it's just a _lovely_ idea. I'm _so_ happy to be a part of it, in more ways than one," Phyllis grinned over at her, and Elsie was startled to see tears shining in her eyes.

"Don't mind me," the younger woman swiped them away. "It's being married, I think, partially; I'm being sentimental. It just seems this summer has been so good to so many people I know, that's all. Joe and I, here, Daisy and Andy, getting married next week…even Mr. Branson getting things settled with Miss Edmunds." There was more, of course, and Elsie knew it.

"Mr. Barrow seems rather happy these days, I've noticed as well, Mrs. Molesley," she said, grinning at the other woman.

"Oh, Mrs. Carson. He is. Very. It's so grand –"

"You don't need to say more, Mrs. Molesley, lest you give away secrets that aren't your own," she laughed, patted the other woman's arm. "Though if he mentions a certain gentleman's name any more frequently, it won't be a secret for long, at least to those of us paying attention."

Phyllis broke into gay laughter, then calmed herself. "It's rather sweet to see, isn't it, Mrs. Carson? In any case, I shan't say more, as you so wisely suggest. It's not our story to tell," she paused, took a deep breath. "Now, I think I'm up to all of this embroidery you've in mind, but if we want this finished before Christmastime, it might be helpful if you can help cut these…" she trailed off, pointing at the sketch they'd come up with together.

The doorbell rang as she spoke, and both women looked up as Mr. Molesley dashed to answer it. Elsie heard an unfamiliar man's voice, warm and boisterous, mixing with his. She turned back to Phyllis, who was explaining her next task.

"See, it would be the same thing, over and over; I'll make you a pattern, and you can cut them as you have time to, we'll need, oh, a few hundred, I think. I'll work on a detailed drawing this evening, and we can go over it together again, before I set needle to cloth. What do you think?"

"I think you're rather extraordinary, Mrs. Molesley."

"I've told her so, often enough, since we've met, but it's good to hear someone else agree with Joe and I here."

Both women turned at the declaration. Standing next to Mr. Molesley was a handsome bearded man, about the same size as Charlie, grinning down at them.

"You must be Francis Holmes," Elsie stood, held out her hand. She was grinning. She couldn't help herself. He engulfed it in his own.

"And you can only be Mrs. Elsie Hughes. Or Carson. It hasn't been made entirely clear to me how it all works, and I've not the wherewithal that all of you folks from the grand house yonder have to sort it all out. In any case, I do believe we're well-met," he shook her hand heartily.

"As I don't foresee future employment at Downton in your future, Mr. Holmes – you've far too much cheek, if I may say so – you may call me Mrs. Carson," Elsie's eyes twinkled mischievously.

Her wry aside was met with a hearty guffaw. "After all I've heard about you, Mrs. Carson, I knew I'd like you, quite a bit. And you've proven my suppositions correct immediately."

"As have you mine, Mr. Holmes."

oooOOOooo

She returned to Downton a bit later than she had anticipated, too curious and too pleased at the serendipity of meeting Francis Holmes, who'd been passing by to drop an order off for Phyllis, not to linger a little longer than she expected there.

The man himself had walked her a few blocks towards the big house, turning off a steep side street to the crimson door of The Red Lion, a place she'd heard many things about, all of them rather intriguing. Before he left her, he turned towards her, clasped her hand again. His face, still open, and earnest rather than teasing, gazed down at her.

"I'll thank you, if you'll allow me to, Mrs. Carson, for being such a good friend to Thomas, for such a long time. And in the most difficult times, especially," he gazed down at her and she could see he knew it all, then, including that terrifying day where she, Phyllis and Andy had found the poor man's life bleeding away into warm water.

She sighed, thought for a moment, not certain she should continue, but then decided she _must_. "I remember once, Mr. Holmes, telling Mr. Barrow he'd just not found the right person, yet. Seems he has, at long last." She was ridiculously close to tears, and felt foolish. But she'd never forget the white, still face, the sodden feeling of Thomas' shirt under her tentative touch. Wondering if he was still alive. _Hoping so, desperately._

"Now, you best be off," she finished, clearing her throat. "But not before you let me give you a kiss, mind." And she stood on tiptoe, kissed the man's bearded cheek.

"Mrs. Carson, it's been an honor," he doffed his hat at her. "I do hope we'll meet again, and often."

"Go on with you, then, Mr. Holmes. Keep that cheek in check, and I'll see what I can do."

oooOOOooo

She returned to Downton, thinking hard. She rubbed the tiny pattern Phyllis had cut for her, a simple shape carved in cardboard, tucked in her pocket. Thought of Francis Holmes' grin, his warm presence. Of the happiness of the Molesleys, in their sweet little home. Of what Charlie's face would look like, once she got this project finished.

Finished! She'd hardly started. She chuckled. But some things were worth working towards, who knew that better than she? She went in through the servants' entrance, her arms loaded down with all of the things she'd collected over the course of the day. She needed to get it to her office before –

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes! You've returned at long last!" Both Downton's current and former butler were standing in the hallway, not ten feet in front of her. She let out something akin to a squawk.

"Mr. Carson! Please avert your eyes and go busy yourself with something of import for a few moments. Perhaps, coercing Mrs. Powell or one of the girls to pack us a light supper? Mr. Barrow, please come and make yourself useful."

She was gratified that both men immediately jumped into action, though Charlie raised his eyebrows at her, and Thomas wouldn't ever dream of doing so.

"What've we here, Mrs. Hughes?" He carefully placed everything on her side table. She shut her door and turned to him.

"'Tis a grand surprise for Mr. Carson, so not a word, Mr. Barrow."

"I'm not even sure what word I would start with, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, a sly grin on his face.

"It's a project, Mr. Barrow, and Mrs. Molesley is helping me quite a bit with it, as well. It's…one part genealogy, one part artwork, one part history and one part…family, I suppose, Mr. Barrow."

"Isn't genealogy and family the same thing, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Is it? I'm not entirely convinced of that, Mr. Barrow. Nor do I think you are either," she paused, then smiled sideways at him as she organized everything. "The Molesleys had a guest whilst I was there, plotting over this project."

"Did they? Whom?" Thomas' face flushed slightly.

"That new haberdasher, dropping off an order for Mrs. Molesley," she answered. "Francis Holmes, it was. You've mentioned him a time or two, have you not, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas burst out laughing, a sudden, sunny sound that both pleased and startled her. "That I may have, Mrs. Hughes."

"I rather like him, Mr. Barrow."

"I rather like him, too, Mrs. Hughes."

"We're in agreement, then. Now I best see what's holding Mr. Carson up, and _you_ best finish up here. I've a feeling Mr. Holmes is waiting for you in town, at that new pub I keep hearing about."

"You should join us, to satisfy your curiosity, Mrs. Hughes."

"Ye say this, Mr. Barrow, without contemplating Mr. Carson. He's not quite ready for the Red Lion, methinks."

"Nor is the Lion ready for him, either, Mrs. Hughes."

"That's settled then. I'll be on my way, and wish you a good evening. And, as I asked of Mr. Holmes, you'll allow me to give you a kiss as a good-bye, this one time, Mr. Barrow."

And she bussed his cheek, squeezed his arm, and was on her way, but not before she noticed the pleased, surprised look on his face.

oooOOOooo

"This surprise of yours seems rather elaborate, Elsie."

Charlie's statement startled her from the repetition of her task: cutting the same tiny shape from several different pieces of fabric provided by Phyllis Molesley. Her husband, across the sitting room and surrounded with his gleaned photographs of the Downton staff, could see she was cutting _something_ , but not what, exactly.

"I don't feel that it's elaborate, Charlie. I just want to do it right." She tucked the pieces away, and stood, stretching her neck until she felt it pop. She walked over to him, peered at the pile of photos scattered on tabletop.

She picked up one of Anna, Thomas, Gwen and William. It was on the lawn, a party going on in the background. She saw Lady Cora reclining under a pavilion. That had been summer 1914, then. After she'd lost that baby, that wee _bairn_ that had decided so much for so many people that lived in the grand house.

"Twas the day the war was declared," she murmured. "William, poor sweet lad." She touched the boy's face. He'd hardly had the chance to be a man, in the end, though he had tried valiantly.

"Almost exactly thirteen years ago, that day," Charlie sighed. "You know, Elsie, I had all of these grand plans to organize these photos, sort some sense into them. But instead, I just keep getting pulled in. To the memories. To the moments."

"Aye, love. I understand. The past can't always be set out tidily, no matter how many photos or names or fact we've got. Bit of the mess of being human, I think."

"I don't care for messes," he stated.

"Don't you? I can think of several times during the course of any given week where you don't seem to mind them terribly," she laughed, stroked his forehead. "Besides, I rather think some of the most beautiful moments are the messiest ones." She kissed his temple, breathed in the much-loved smell of him, rested her cheek on the top of his head.

"I told Thomas, what I thought. Of how he was doing, at Downton."

"Did you now? And?"

"It was just as I said…and just as _you_ said."

"See? Not everything can always be comfortable and polite."

"Yes, yes. Very well, I'll show you messy then, Elsie," he pulled her down on his lap, expertly unpinning her hair. She laughed, and some of the photos fell and scattered, the faces from the past looking up at them.


	23. Another Wedding Day

**Chapter 23 – Another Wedding Day**

 **A/N: I've written about Daisy and Andy's wedding previously, towards the end of A History of Moments (my Chelsie behemoth). I've definitely taken some of the same feelings, themes and vibes from that chapter in that story, as it's what I've imagined for these two. ~ CeeCee**

The late July evening fell over the happy gathering at Yew Tree Farm like a soft blanket. The bride and groom had said their vows, shyly but warmly, and Thomas watched them intently. Though he'd been far crueler to others than she in the past, watching Daisy as she held Andy's gaze stirred something high up in his chest.

Maybe it was seeing the certainty on her face, as she recited her vows, hearing the sureness in her voice. Daisy had always been awash with insecurity and hesitance, to which she had added a layer of punishing guilt once William Mason had died. Thomas could understand torturing oneself. What shamed him as he looked at the happy couple was that he'd fed on her spotty self-esteem, without a thought to it, in days and years past.

There was a crowd gathered 'round them, and Mr. Mason said something kind and thoughtful and celebratory, to which everyone raised their glasses. Then Andy raised his hand for silence, gazed over at Daisy in her simple, white drop-waist dress.

"The dress looks well on her, Birdie. A fine job you did, love," Joe Molesley, standing beside him, whispered to his wife, bending close to her ear. She distractedly shushed him, smiling a little. Then something caught his eye, or someone, just behind Thomas.

"Howya, Frank?" Joe mouthed, and Phyllis waved. Thomas turned. Francis stood there, grinning at him.

"Thomas," he nodded, looking as if he were about to burst out laughing. "Joe, Phyllis." He nodded at the others.

"Are you crashing a wedding, then?" He grinned at him, both nervous and terribly pleased by his unexpected presence.

"Oh, goodness, no," Francis shook his head, whispered to the other three. "I happened to pass by on my way to town, and decided no one would notice one more, at least not before the eating starts. I'll see myself out in a moment. Places to go, people to see…"

"That's quite a roundabout route, Mr. Hol-" Thomas began. Phyllis hushed them again. Francis winked at him, and they both fell silent. Andy was speaking.

"I've something I want to say, though I'll not take up much of your time. If you all can bear with me for a few minutes, we can get to the eating, drinking and music. I'm…I'm not one much for public speaking. I am – was – a footman, and now I'll be a farmer," Andy beamed down at Daisy, who smiled back up at him.

"And…if you'll all allow me to –" there were whoops and shouts of encouragement, and Andy raised his hands again. "If you'll allow me to, I'd like to read something, to my bride. My wife. To Daisy," he grinned at her, then seemingly unable to help himself, leaned over and planted a huge kiss by the corner of her mouth. The crowd whooped louder, and that light feeling around Thomas' heart expanded.

"It's a sonnet, by William Shakespeare," Andy pulled a hand-worn piece of paper from his suit pocket, unfolded it. "And before I read it, I need to thank a few people: Mr. Carson, for helping me select the right words to say; and Mr. Molesley and Mr. Barrow, for teaching me how to read 'em."

Thomas' stomach soared at the sound of his name. It was wholly unexpected. Yes, he'd tried to help Andy when the lad revealed he couldn't read a'tall. But he'd assumed it had been long forgotten, by everyone, including the man himself Joe Molesley was grinning over at him, looking as chuffed as he himself felt.

"So, some of your ghosts are friendly, after all," Francis whispered to him, squeezing his arm gently. "You're a better person than you think, Mr. Barrow."

"Keep saying so, Mr. Holmes, and I might just come around to your way of thinking."

oooOOOooo

Elsie grinned up at Charlie when Andy mentioned his name, then her eyes found Thomas Barrow and Joe Molesley, a few yards away. She was startled and pleased to see the burly form of Francis Holmes standing in their little group. He caught her eye, grinned devilishly and tipped his hat at her. She tried not to laugh.

When Andy finished his recitation, the gathered crowd began to mingle. She had seen Isobel Crawley towards the back of the assembled guests, and was going to head in her direction to say hello, when Charlie interrupted her train of thought.

"Oh, that's the new haberdasher, the nephew, who took over for Hector Holmes," her husband was saying. "Fine fellow, actually; I stopped in last time I was in Ripon. Still knows how to outfit a gentleman properly. I wonder what he's doing here..." he trailed off, and caught her eye. "Perhaps _you_ know, Elsie?"

"I know less than you'd like to accuse me of, Mr. Carson," she replied, laughing. "But I agree with you, he's a fine fellow, as I had an opportunity to meet him last week. He's a friend of the Molelseys…and of Mr. Barrow's, most particularly." She looked at him pointedly. She'd not belabor things, but nor would she tiptoe around the truth.

His eyebrows nearly leapt off his forehead, but he nodded. He looked more thoughtful than she expected him to, though his face was quite serious. "Ah, I see. That explains…quite a bit…about Mr. Barrow's sunny mood recently, then, doesn't it?"

"I'm rather proud of you for that answer, Charlie, for several reasons," she pulled him down, kissed him square on the mouth, not caring if all and sundry saw or not. "Have you the fortitude to say hello to them all, then?"

"If you've another kiss like _that_ for me, Elsie, on the other side of it, I believe I do."

"Consider it a promise, then, Charlie. And I don't take promises lightly, as you well know."

oooOOOooo

"Can't believe it's been nearly two months since our own wedding, Birdie," Joe's voice, close by her cheek. They were dancing, _of course,_ they were dancing; she loved dancing with him. He spun her out, and back, expertly, then held her close.

"The summer's gone by in a blink, hasn't it, Joe?" She answered him, grinning into his rather sweaty face. "And when you say it like that, 'two months', it catches me up for a second; it feels both longer and shorter, somehow, doesn't it?"

"It does, sometimes…though the time _before_ we were married, before…before I was certain you loved me, as I loved you, seemed far longer. Far, far longer, Birdie." His forehead creased and he looked so dear to her, in that moment, so sincere in his consternation, she did her best not to laugh aloud.

"It _was_ longer, of course, Joe," she whispered to him, wiping his forehead dry with her palm. "But someday, soon, we'll have been married longer than that time before. Besides, Mr. Molesley, whilst you were sorting out whether or not I was in love with you, or you with me, you became my best friend, my champion. That's valuable enough, to me, and worth the wait."

He beamed at her, then glanced around at the other couples, dancing in the grass, under a few billowy pavilions borrowed from Downton for the occasion. Fairy lights, usually used for the great Christmas tree there, were wound around trees and posts, with a line of the tiny lights leading back into the farmhouse, where they were plugged into one of the few sockets in the modest building. Phyllis hoped they held out for the remainder of the evening, as the farmyard had been transformed into something pretty and magical for the day.

"I think Thomas and Frank did a runner," Joe interrupted her thoughts. "Which, I suppose, is well enough, since Frank just sort of…showed up." He chuckled.

Joe and Francis enjoyed each other's company, very much. They'd had the two men over for dinner twice since Joe had extended the invitation, and Phyllis enjoyed those evenings so very much, the four of them laughing, talking, sipping wine and listening to music companionably, far too late.

"We, the Lion _is_ always waiting, or so I've heard…" she smiled at him.

"Did you want to go one night? See what the fuss is about? Might be a bit of an adventure, don't you think?" He twirled her again, and she laughed.

"Most days with you _are_ an adventure, Joe," she replied, as he pulled her back towards him.

oooOOOooo

She was put out but trying to hide it. However, the more she tried to ignore it, the less successful she was. It was all rather foolish. She'd nearly not come to this wedding, feeling she hadn't reason to be here, despite being invited, the way she had at Joseph Molesley's nuptials.

She had come anyway. She had come, of course, because she knew Richard would be here. _Dr. Clarkson,_ rather. It had been a week since their…jaunt…to the Red Lion, and she'd been restless all week. It was pleasant, the feeling. Rather…anticipatory.

She'd expected to run into the doctor at least once between now and then, and she hadn't. She'd hardly thought it possible, but, as luck would have it, once she realized she wanted to see him, he was suddenly absent. And so, it hadn't been until the wedding ceremony, when she saw him arrive, standing towards the back of the assembled crowd, that she finally clapped eyes on him. He looked a bit rushed, a bit harried, and most of all, his eyes were moving in a way that was very familiar to her: he had clearly just been with a patient, and was reviewing the stats, the diagnosis and prognosis as the couple before them murmured words of devotion to each other.

His eyes finally focused, and she saw him glance around. Was deeply gratified when his gaze landed on her. It was _she_ he'd been looking for, which pleased her far more than she cared to admit. She nodded, trying very hard to keep her face still, though her heart was racing. These feelings were just so new to her – or, perhaps, the better word would be "realized" – she didn't feel quite ready to share them yet.

And, then, somehow, after the ceremony ended, she kept losing sight of him. They'd landed at the same table for dinner, but on opposite ends of the rectangular expanse of wooden tabletop. He would catch her looking, or she him. And still. They'd not actually spoken by the time dinner was over.

When everyone rose, moved to the space cleared for dancing, she no longer cared about appearing forward. She headed briskly in his direction, though his head was turned slightly away from her, talking to a vaguely familiar woman their age with dark hair. She was a phone operator, Isobel was nearly certain, worked the local switchboard.

And then: he was walking _away_ from where she stood, with the raven-haired woman. They were clearly going to dance, and Richard glanced back at Isobel, smiled, and shrugged ruefully, as if dancing with her was a minor inconvenience to be gotten through, before he came over to where he actually wanted to be.

She sat down, breathing hard. _There was nothing to be jealous about; that was clear._ She realized that the operator was the same women he'd been dancing with at the Molesleys' hooley, when _she'd_ been _avoiding_ dancing with him. He'd known what she was doing, those weeks ago, and he'd let her, with a rueful grin over his dance partner's head, much like he'd done just now.

She wasn't grappling with jealousy, not exactly, no. It was something more fundamental: how could she be so unaware of her own heart, for so long? This love she felt for him, it wasn't a new, giddy feeling. No, it was like walking down a familiar lane, and realizing that, not only did you find the scenery lovely and the path well-known, it was one of your favorite spots.

 _Oh my. I've been terribly foolish, haven't I?_

Never mind that. Someone was talking to her. She looked up. There he was, grinning down at her, his hand extended.

"Lady Isobel, I –"

She stood, took his hand in hers. Squeezed his fingers. My, it felt nice to do so.

"Yes, Doctor?" She was standing very close to him. Likely a little too close. He seemed surprised, but pleased.

"I apologize for the delay, it's simply that Mrs. Dev –"

"Never mind her, she's not important," her voice sounded tinny and harsh in her ears.

"Isobel," his voice was quiet, his head slightly inclined towards her. She could smell his aftershave, his pomade, _him._ "Forgive me for asking, but are you quite alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I am, Doctor," she replied. She remembered, suddenly, where they were. Half the village was here right now. "Thank you. Are we going to dance, then?" She tried to recover. She thought she had until he burst out laughing.

"It _is_ what I had in mind, when I walked over here, yes, if you were so inclined, and you seem to be," his eyes were twinkling, but, oh, behind the mirth on the surface, there was a steadfast warmth there that went down, down, down, a long way, for a long time. Over ten years, nearly fifteen.

He led her the short distance to the dance area, pulled her towards him. Placed his hand on her waist, distracting and wonderful. She looked up at him, his face very, very close to hers. She so rarely had the opportunity to look at him straight on, like this. There was a lull in the music and the musicians rearranged themselves

 _He's quite handsome_ , she thought. _And he's_ always _been, you fool._ Worried she'd said it out loud, but no; neither of them had spoken. She wondered what he could see on her face, anyway; what she was saying without words.

The music suddenly started again, and he pulled her even closer.

"Ready then?" He said, grinning at her. She nodded. "Here we go."


	24. Tenacity Before Temerity

**A/N: Just…thanks. All of you guys. For reading, review, re-blogging. I know this fic doesn't really follow a certain 'ship and it's been kinda all over the place regarding POV, but I am SO enjoying writing it, and getting a sense of what you all think of it. So, thank you! ~CeeCee**

Isobel felt tired and sweaty and thrilled and very awake, which made no sense. But it didn't seem to matter, not tonight. She sat on one of the long picnic benches, catching her breath. She'd not sat down since Richard escorted her to the dance floor, over an hour ago.

They'd partnered for several songs together, and then, somehow, both of them realized they ought to pair up with others. They were drawing attention to themselves. The Molesleys each whisked one of them away, first of a quick succession of other dance partners.

And now, here she was. Collapsed on a bench, breathless, nearly panting. Feeling like a girl at a church dance. It was marvelous. Richard headed towards her, two cups of punch in his hands.

"You are a woman of many talents, Lady Isobel," he toasted her, and she clinked her glass against his.

"I thank you, Doctor. Talents honed over many years, all of which I am feeling at this very minute," she laughed, took a generous gulp of her drink. It wasn't as good as the cocktail Jenny had made her the other night, but it would do in a pinch.

"There are few who are as vital as you are, even at half your age," he replied, and she burst out laughing.

He raised his eyebrows at her, his mustache twitching over the rim of his cup.

"That is the most clinical compliment I've ever been given, and I was married to a doctor for thirty years!"

"Very well," he lowered his cup, and his face became serious. "I suppose I can rise to a challenge, when presented with one." His eyes were soft. She wasn't entirely sure if she was ready to hear what he had to say.

"Doctor, do you think you could walk me back to the village?" She blurted out.

His expression shifted. She'd cut him off, yes. But what she was asking…

"I'm certain I could," he answered. "But what of young Jack Davis? Is he not fetching you this evening?"

She shook her head, looked away. She'd been counting on the walk back, counting on _this._ "No, I planned on walking back this evening."

"Did you? That's rather…." He trailed off, he forehead furrowing.

" _Vital_ of me?"

He laughed and shook his head. "That'll teach me to consider my words before doling out a compliment to you, Lady Isobel," he answered, but his eyes were twinkling. "You weren't considering walking back alone, were you?"

"I was hoping that I wouldn't have to, Doctor. I…I took a chance. You've taken chances before, haven't you?"

"I have, indeed," he answered, smiling. But his eyes were thoughtful once more. "And I likely will again."

oooOOOooo

As they walked towards town, they passed other revelers also strolling back through the beautiful late-evening air. The pairs and trios they walked by seemed happy to take their time getting home – or wherever they were headed next - as the moon rode high overhead, a grinning sliver of luminescence.

For a while, she and Richard Clarkson walked in charged, companionable silence, side by side, his shoulder occasionally brushing hers. She couldn't tell whether it was intentional or simply a result of the darkening evening. She didn't feel the need to speak, not at the moment. She was happy to listen to their mingled breathing, the nearby chatter of the other walkers, in front and behind them.

There was a sudden burst of song ahead, from one of the young footman from Downton, who was walking with a small group made up of younger staff members from the grand house.

"Now I went down to London Town  
And I had some fun in the underground  
The ladies turned their heads around…"

She burst out laughing, as did the doctor beside her, and they finished, along with group of young folk ahead, and others walking along the lane:

 _"Saying, Donald, where's your trousers?"_

She gazed at the small group of maids, footmen and stable grooms, who continued another round of the song enthusiastically, wondering what was in store for all of them. Ever since the war ended, it seemed that a lifetime of service was a less and less likely career path for many people their age.

"What's on your mind, Lady Isobel?"

"Oh, I was just musing, Doctor, on those youngsters ahead," she nodded, looked over at him, grinning. "The lot of them work at Downton, a good, steady job, to be sure, but I was just thinking…most of them likely won't spend the majority of their lives there. They've other sound options, in this world. More exciting, interesting ones, too. For both the men _and_ women."

"At the risk of repeating myself, 'ever the democrat,'" he replied wryly. "You're not wrong, though. I've seen it happening, bit by bit, the past ten years or so; we've more women on staff then men, now, down at the hospital, from the administrative to the nursing staff. We've even a female houseman, though I've deferred to the term 'resident' to avoid confusing the matter."

"Well, that's wonderful! A fine example of the tenacity of the human spirit," she replied.

"I can think of another one," he said quietly.

She realized they were on their own now; or, at the very least, the other evening strollers were either so far ahead or behind them on the path back to the village, they very well might have been.

She stopped for a moment, turned and faced him. "Perhaps you are confusing 'tenacity' for 'temerity', Doctor Clarkson," her heart was pounding, she could hear its rhythm in her ears, adding percussion to the insect songs all around them.

"Perhaps," he stepped closer to her. Not as close as he had been when they were dancing, no; but somehow it _felt_ closer, as there was no legitimate excuse for it, and only a few others she could think of, all of them dangerously thrilling. "Or perhaps, it's a combination of the two. Historically speaking, I mean."

"It's a daunting combination," she answered. Her voice sounded normal, but felt small.

There were parts of her that wanted him, desperately, to close the distance between them, brush his hand across her face, and kiss her, wrap his arm back around her waist. There were other parts, equal in number, which cried out all sorts of reasons to her that this was a terrible, poorly-conceived desire. They shouted Dickie's name in her head, reminded her of her _position_ in town (sounding very much like Violet Crawley), that she was married and widowed twice already, _what was she thinking?_

And loudest of all was the voice that sounded most like her own, which reminded her that this man had loved her for a very long time, steadfastly, the best way he could, in whatever way she had allowed him to, though he had never lost his sense of pride or self-worth in doing so, or allowed his affection for her to blind him to her many, many foibles.

If that didn't sound like a husband, she wasn't sure what did. And it terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.

He was still standing there. Waiting for her. As he'd been, all these years. Strong and confident in himself, warm and kind, but always there.

"It doesn't feel as daunting as it used to, these days," he answered, at last. And he did nothing more than take her hand, and lace his fingers through hers. Her hearted bounded and rebounded the length of her body. It was so little, and so very, very much. How many times had they walked, side by side, not touching at all?

They started walking again, and Isobel could hear, in the near distance, the boisterous, happy singing of Downton's junior staff members, followed by laughter. She felt both young and old, too wise, too experienced, for her own good, but, oh, to walk hand and hand, fingers folded over each other! She'd not done so in decades, since she and Reg had been courting.

"Dr. Clarkson," she said, at last.

"Lady Isobel," his reply, his voice teasing but with something warmer, underneath.

"If you've the time, perhaps you could come for tea tomorrow afternoon? I certainly owe you it, after you returned Cousin Violet's walking stick to me intact," she finished.

"I'm certain I could make the time, Lady Isobel. I thank you for the invitation," he answered.

They were on the outskirts of the village now, and she let go of his hand reluctantly, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She thought, _hoped,_ he understood that she wasn't trying to be discreet for propriety's sake; no. It was just that…for her, these feelings towards him were so new, so freshly realized, she didn't want to share them, not yet, at least.

"I am happy to accept, with one caveat," he continued, pressed his hand briefly against hers, the one that was clutching his arm.

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"That I may return the favor by taking you to the Lion again this week."

"So long as Jenny will make that concoction of hers for me again, you've yourself a deal, Doctor."


	25. London Calling

**Chapter 25 – London Calling**

The Carsons stayed on at Yew Tree, along with the Bateses and the Moleleys, after the last guests had drifted into the evening, calling out congratulations and well-wishes, to help the Masons disassemble the yard's finery. With such a hard-working, happy group, the cheerful remnants of the wedding dinner were cleared and cleaned up in no time flat.

Elsie and Charlie parted ways with the two younger couples to turn down the path to their cottage, and she reached out and took his hand, swinging it a bit. As steadfastly practical as she was, it was impossible not to get a bit caught up in the sentimentality of a wedding day.

"Another one in the books," Charlie grinned over at her.

"Aye, the last one's Mr. Branson's, which won't be quite the same," she answered. Tom Branson and his editor fiancée were wedding in London, at one or another fashionable hotel as-yet-to-be determined.

"At least this one's not so far afield as the first," Charlie cleared his throat significantly.

"Hush, you. I'm happy for him. Very happy for him, considering all he's been through," she answered, a bit embarrassed, though it was only the two of them now, when her voice caught a little in her throat. She thought of Lady Sybil, of her easy smile, her generous way with anyone who crossed her path. Her enthusiasm for life, for what each day held.

"Elsie?"

"Ah, don't mind me. Getting teary-eyed over that lovely lost lass, I'm afraid, Charlie," she shook her head, a few stray tears flying off her cheeks. She brushed them dry. "Nae, I shan't weep tonight, at the end of such a happy day. And I will be glad for Tom Branson, who deserves to find love again."

"Even if it's not quite the love of a lifetime," Charles mused. "Not that I doubt his affection for Miss Edmunds. Only that, with Lady Sybil, whether I approved of the pair or not, it was…"

"Well, by definition, if you deem something ' _the_ love of a lifetime' there must only be one, no? The love to which all others pale in comparison?"

They'd arrived home, and they went into the sitting room. Charlie threw one of the windows open, the breeze making the curtains flutter. They settled themselves onto the red velvet loveseat, her stockinged feet tucked beneath her, his long legs stretched in front of him.

"I suppose you're right, at that, Elsie," he finally said, glancing at her sideways. "It _is_ a superlative designation."

"And perhaps one that is unfair to loves that come afterwards," she mused.

"Meaning what, precisely?"

"Only that Miss Edmunds can never live up to the memory of Lady Sybil, if we frame love in such a way," Elsie sat up a bit thinking. "And further, Charlie, think of it – perhaps Mr. Branson is the love of _her_ lifetime."

"You're taking this rather seriously, Elsie."

"Mayhaps I am. It will be Miss Edmunds who Mr. Branson grows old with, Charlie, if all goes as it should. The same could be said for your blessed Lady Mary. Mr. Crawley was the love of her lifetime, but what of Mr. Talbot?"

"I believe all it proves is that a love of a lifetime isn't always the same as the love who witnesses your lifetime," he answered, then turned towards her, stroking her cheek. She pressed her face against his warm hand. "Though, obviously, in my case, they are one in the same."

"You managed to save that one rather well, Mr. Carson," she leaned over and kissed him, lingeringly. "I'm glad I've some time now, to work on my project, before heading to London at the end of August. It'll hopefully be finished beforehand, so I can give it to you before I go." She brushed her fingers over his unruly eyebrows. "I'll miss you sorely whilst I'm there, my dear."

"And I, you, of course," he responded, looking thoughtful. "But what would you say to spending a few days in Brighton, after all of the busyness of Mr. Branson's wedding and everyone at Grantham House is well settled on their way back here? I can make all of the arrangements; just take the tramcar down."

"Well, I'd say that's a delightful idea, Mr. Carson!" He sometimes surprised her. It was a lovely thing, that. To know someone so very well, for so very long, but to still be surprised by them, now and again.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and sighed. "We'll dip our toes in the surf, then. A fine way to spend a few days."

"And I'll hold your hand, to feel steady," he looked down at her, his eyes twinkling.

She burst out laughing. "Always."

oooOOOooo

It was early, the sun only just lightening the sky to a sapphire blue. Phyllis curled over on her side, tucking herself against Joe's sleeping warmth, pulling the pillow under her chin.

The wedding had been lovely, just as she'd expected it to be. And it had been rather nice of Andy to acknowledge Joe, and Charles Carson. And especially Thomas. She'd been particularly pleased that the compliment had come after Francis had made his surprise appearance.

"Crashing" the wedding, Joe had teased him, but he'd not stayed for long after, nor had Thomas. They'd left when supper began, walking towards town, and the Lion, of course. Francis had suggested hosting dinner this time, and invited them over for Thursday next. The evenings the four of them spent together were so easy, so friendly, so _enjoyable,_ Phyllis could hardly account for the fact that Thomas had caused her so much strife such a short time ago.

But she was glad of it. She was _grateful_ for it.

Joe suddenly rustled gently behind her.

"You awake, Birdie?"

"I am. How could you tell?"

"Spousal divination."

She burst out laughing. "I never realized how attractive an expansive vocabulary was on a man until I met you, Joe. Why are you awake, anyway? Did I disturb you?"

"Not a'tall, love. Though I suppose I must have been thinking on something while I was asleep, because I woke up remembering something I forgot to tell you. About London."

"You mean, the Crawleys' trip? For Mr. Branson's wedding?" She tucked herself even closer to him, resistant of the idea of over a week away from him, from their bed. How funny, so much of her life prior to this had been so solitary. _How quickly we become accustom to love. To company._

"Yes, that. Thomas – Mr. Barrow, I must get used to saying that again – Mr. Barrow asked me tonight, if I'd consider coming along as a footman. Now that Andy's at the farm fulltime, the other lads are a bit junior. He said he and Mrs. Hughes really only needed one man on, and were going to hire someone out, but he thought I'd might like to. Considering you'd be there, of course."

She turned to face him. "Oh, Joe! Yes, please. I cannot believe you forgot to tell me, you daft man." She swatted his bare shoulder.

"Sorry, Birdie, it honestly slipped my mind. I suppose, I thought you'd be pleased, so it was a non-starter as a conversation," he looked slightly stricken, leaned over and kissed her.

"Of course I'm pleased. I was just thinking how lonely it'd be, without you there."

"Well, there you have it, then."

She suddenly laughed at herself. Her first thought on the tail of this was that they'd not be able to share a bed at Grantham House. Clearly not. And it felt rather ridiculous.

"What's so funny?"

"Just that your wife is rather greedy and somewhat wanton, Mr. Molesley," she replied dryly. "I was thinking we'll have to sleep separately while were there, but never mind that. It's better than not seeing you at all for so long."

"Actually, that might not be true, Birdie. You may well be able to sate your wantonness – to no objection on my part, mind you- whilst we're in London. Thomas mentioned something about 'alternative boarding options' but didn't get into the details. No doubt, he's plotting something."

"And no one plots quite like Thomas Barrow, so we can safely assume it's all sorted."

"For the better, in this instance," he answered, then pulled her close.

oooOOOooo

"So, when's the next wedding?" Francis grinned at him over the top of the newspaper he was reading. They sat at the small table off his kitchen, toast and egg before them.

It was still early, and they'd had a somewhat late night (not that he minded, certainly) but Thomas had to be back at Downton shortly. He'd promised Elsie Hughes as much, and, at the very least, he owed her punctuality.

"End of the month," he answered, taking a hearty swig from the coffee cup in front of him. "'Tis a bit different, of course; technically, I'm a guest at the event itself, but some of the staff from the big house necessarily has to go with the family to the London house. They used to keep both places fully staffed, but those days are over, for good or not."

"Depends on where you're sitting, I suppose," Francis grinned, sipped his own coffee. "This side of the table is firmly for less disparity between the classes, though, of course, I will shamelessly take their money for any and all bespoke creations they've in mind."

"And here I was under the impression that you liked me," Thomas replied wryly. "Instead, you'd like me out of a job."

"What? You've no interest in being a kept man? Maybe I like you _too_ much," Francis teased, then grabbed his hand across the table.

"This next generation, Lady Mary's generation, will be the last of it, I think," Thomas mused, squeezing his fingers. "Not that the peerage will disappear, mind you, but things are changing…quickly. I'm not certain that grand houses will be traditionally staffed in the future"

"The Final Butler of Downton," Francis intoned with mock-seriousness. "Where shall we erect your memorial statue? The village square? The great hall? Lady Mary's dressing room?"

"You do realize my esteemed colleague is waiting for my arrival whilst I sit here, being mocked," Thomas stood, put his jacket on. Took a final bite of toast, a last sip of coffee.

"A moment, please," Francis held his hand up, put his paper down. He stood, facing Thomas. Brushed his hands across his lapels, straightened the cuffs of his sleeves. Furrowed his brow and adjusted his tie.

"This is a bit much," Thomas murmured. "I'm changing into my livery the moment I arrive back. The only person who might see me beforehand is a stray farmer, and Mrs. Hughes." He leaned over and gave Francis a quick kiss.

"Oh, I like her, quite a bit. She's a feistier version of Aunt Di. And in any case, one should always look one's best. Especially first thing. It starts the day off right," Francis replied. "There. Done." He stepped back, critically examining his handiwork.

"Thomas," he said.

"Please don't tell me to change my tie."

"Very funny. I was thinking…I've been meaning to go back to London all summer, to the fabric houses, to freshen up our stock," he started. "But I've not been yet. I kept getting distracted by this rather lovely bloke, you see, who lives 'round here."

"Really?"

"Yes, indeed. In any case, it's about time I go, and I'd like to see some old mates whilst I'm there. I know you'll be working, of course, but…perhaps we could see and do some of the things the city has to offer, together? I'll stay with one of my mates, she's a spare room. I'm sure Mrs. Elsie Hughes Carson would be supportive of some time off for you, some recreational exploration of the town, between responsibilities?"

Thomas felt the wind taken out of him a bit. The idea of…of spending time with Francis, together, in London. The vast number of places they could visit and frequent together, openly, as a couple, as compared to 'round Yorkshire, which was none at all, aside from the Lion. _Bless the Lion_.

"That…that sounds brilliant," he finally managed. He was wondering why he'd not thought of Francis coming to London at the same time he'd be there; it hadn't even occurred to him. Was it…was it just that he was waiting? For this to be over? For the other shoe to drop, for Francis to tire of him, or couch his affection in some way, place conditions on it?

But…there didn't seem to be limits, here. Not between them, at least. The world, maybe. But the world could go hang, in this instance. It didn't matter. Francis did. _They_ did.

"Alright, Thomas?" Francis' hand, on his cheek.

"Yes. More than alright, grand actually." The other words, the important ones, were stuck in his throat for now, but perhaps, he could dislodge them, in time. He leaned over and kissed Francis again, lingeringly, hoping he somehow conveyed what was in his heart.

Something only partially formed, but growing, into something beautiful.


	26. Found Out

**Chapter 26 – Found Out**

 **A/N: For CSotA, because she was SO VERY PATIENT about this whole thing. ;-)**

Isobel clutched the small posy of flowers in both hands, made her way up the gentle incline that wrapped around the side of the church. She looked down at them, smiled, then brushed a rare tear from her cheek. She'd pulled them, this small bunch, from a much larger bouquet that had arrived at Crawley House yesterday morning.

While she was visiting with Violet Crawley.

The maid had brought them in and she couldn't see the girl's face around all of the flora and greenery. Isobel's stomach had lurched delightfully at the sight of them. They could only be from one person.

"My goodness, who died?" Violet intoned.

"Thank you, Mariah, you can leave those on the corner table. She rose, plucking the card quickly from where it was nestled. Her cousin was leaning slightly adrift, resting heavily on her walking stick, her eyes as wide and guileless as a baby bird.

"Hopefully no one important," she retorted, glancing quickly down at the writing. _Stuck in the muck of medicine. Will miss tea. Lion, tomorrow evening, if you are able and willing. Eternally sorry, and grateful. ~Dr. R. C._

It took all she had not to laugh. She slid the card into her pocket, and sat across from Violet.

"All is well?" The other woman looked benignly at her, but her eyes were pale and bright.

"Yes, it is, in fact."

"The last time I saw a personal arrangement of flowers like that, it was right before Prince Kuragin left Yorkshire for good. They lasted quite longer than I expected, actually," Violet's tone was easy, her face momentarily soft.

Isobel could still feel the card, sitting in her pocket. "He still loved you, Cousin Violet, don't you think?"

"I believe he did, Cousin Isobel," Violet sighed, glanced out the bay window, then turned her gaze back onto Isobel. "And, had it been appropriate to feel such things towards a lawfully married man, I may have still loved him. Had it been appropriate, of course."

"Of course," Isobel answered. Her heart ached in so many places, for so many people, she wasn't sure how it was still beating. The flowers in the corner were too beautiful for this room, the note, too large for her pocket.

"A man who sends a bouquet like that has loved the recipient for a long time, I believe, right or wrong," Violet said, looking at the flowers.

"Yes," Isobel sighed. "You're probably right."

"Why did you marry Dickie Merton?"

The question was so sudden, it made her gasp, like cold water on her face in the morning. She spoke before she could think properly, which was, of course, what Violet Crawley was hoping for.

"Because he asked. Because he loved me…no, no, because he _needed_ me. He needed my help, and my protection, from those children of his," her voice was bleak. _Oh, Dickie, it was so unfair to you._

"And you made him happy, of course," Violet reminded gently. "Dickie Merton was not harmed by your actions, Cousin Isobel. Quite the contrary."

"He was a good man, a good husband."

"Oh, he most certainly was, even to the harridan who preceded you, Cousin Isobel," Violet rose, walked over to the flowers carefully, leaning on the walking stick that had saved a young boy's leg not so long ago. "You've had _two_ good husbands, as much as they varied, in personality, and in your esteem."

"Yes," she answered. She couldn't find any other words.

"And now, it appears, you'll have a third," Violet bent low, murmuring, almost to herself. "These were well-arranged. I'll have to ask him where he ordered them from." Now the other woman turned back towards her fully, then sat across from her.

Isobel could feel her mouth was slightly agape.

"And possibly, this time, _you'll_ be _his_ project," Violet picked up her tea, took a sip. "Goodness knows, the man has put in enough time studying your particular way of doing things."

oooOOOooo

She thought of Violet, and of that massive arrangement of flowers. Squeezed the smaller version in her hands. She crested the small slope and of course. There he was, standing at Matthew's grave, hat in his hand, pressed against his chest.

He glanced up, caught sight of her. Grew crimson.

"Lady Isobel," he muttered.

"Dr. Clarkson," she knelt gracefully, placed the posy at the base of the gravestone. There were two others, one much like hers, likely just left by this extraordinary man beside her, and one by Mary, she guessed.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said softly, standing over her. She pressed her fingers against the letters of Matthew's name.

"I was bound to catch you eventually, in your kindness and dedication, Doctor," she smiled ruefully up at him, proffered her hand. He helped her up. Kept her hand in his, though it was a politer grasp than a day and a half ago, just lightly pressing on her fingertips. "I am frankly surprised it took me nearly six years to do so."

"I did my best to make sure you never did," he shrugged, his face half-turned from hers. "Until a few weeks ago…when, well, I certainly didn't come here, expecting you. But I just stopped…"

"Avoiding me, intentionally?"

"Something just like that," he answered.

"I'm still uncertain why you did so in the first place, for so long."

He sighed. He still wasn't really looking at her.

"Because…because I was coming here for my own reasons. No, that's not exactly what I mean, not really. It was just…such a cruel, horrible stroke of fate. A boy losing his father on the day he was born. I came here, because Matthew died too soon. I came here because George should not have lost his father before he knew him. And yes, I came here, because he was your son. I'll not deny that, Lady Isobel. But, had people known, had _you_ known, it would have been misconstrued. The truth of the tragedy would have been lost, in senseless gossip."

"You are a very good man, Dr. Clarkson," she said it before she could even consider it. The words just fell out of her mouth.

And now, at last, he turned back towards her, just gazing at her. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. He was still holding her fingertips lightly, at their sides.

"I know we've plans this evening, but might I entice you to tea in this moment?"

"You could, usually, but we're short-staffed today, again," he shook his head as they started back down the hill. "Two of my residents caught a nasty upper respiratory infection, the same one, which leads me to believe they'll likely start a husband-and-wife practice someday," he chuckled, and so did she. "Though, as you note, we've plans this evening, which I shan't be missing, not if every doctor and nurse in the building keel over at the same moment."

They were standing in front of Crawley House. He squeezed her hand again.

"This evening, then, Lady Isobel. The Lion."

"Yes, this evening, Doctor Clarkson. Thank goodness for the Lion."

oooOOOooo

"Izzy! You're back! Brilliant!"

She was greeted enthusiastically by Jenny, the barkeep from the other night. She exchanged a grin with Richard, who laughed aloud. Before either of them could say a word, their drinks were set before them: a whisky neat for him, that lovely, cloudy amber drink the bartender had made for her the last time she was here.

"Tis named after you, you should know," Jenny nodded at her cocktail. "I threw it together, a little bit of a bunch of different things, to make something…delicious. Temptin', even. After I made it for you, I offered a few around, people seemed to enjoy 'em. 'Izzy's Choice' I'm callin' them."

"What you don't know, Jenny, is that Isobel is one of the most decisive people of my acquaintance, so this concoction is aptly named," he took a sip of his own straightforward drink.

"What I don't know, Rich, could fill a library. What I don't know, is _anything_ that happens out there," she gestured towards the door. "The Lion, is the Lion. The rest of the world, well. Good luck to it."

She meandered away from them with a smile and a wink, and they walked to the spot they'd taken last time. They sat, sipping their drinks in silence that was easy and warm.

"Do you think that's really true, then?" She finally interrupted the calm. "I'd like to think so, if only because it's such a wonderful idea: come as you are, be taken as you are. I want to believe it. I've seen Spratt no fewer than a dozen times since we've been here, and the man's never even raised his eyebrow at me. And he's a pot-stirrer if there ever was one."

Richard was nodding, and laughing. "Yes, it's odd, when you think about how much a village thrives on gossip. But not here; it has no currency here, for some reason. I rather like that, don't you?"

"I do, indeed," she replied.

"What's odd, is I've seen relationships, friendships, courtships, and the like, _start_ here, and grow here. The people involved often do wind up taking them outside, into the real world, as much as possible. Some of those…entanglements…live and die here, but many of them carry on, beyond that red door," he mused.

"That's encouraging," she said. And she reached out and took his hand in hers. His head spun back around to her, his face comically surprised.

"Isobel."

"Richard," she answered. Sipped her drink, named for her. "Tell me something. Anything."

"What do you want to know?" He was pleased and perplexed, in equal measure.

"Just…something about you. That I don't know, after all these years. Something foolish, or heartwarming, or tragic. No, maybe skip tragic, for this evening. Something wild or brave, perhaps. And adventure, even Tis your choice, as this is mine," she raised her drink at him, and the toasted.

"But you are not the chronicler of my life, Isobel," he grinned, his lips curving under that mustache of his.

"I'm not, presently. But I may be, if I am lucky enough, perhaps," he heart was pounding, with nervousness, and excitement, and lust and yes…with love. This was not at all like how she'd felt with Reg, or Dickie. This was something different. She could hear every sound he made, see every pore on his cheek, felt the warmth radiating from his leg, close to hers, underneath the table. She was not sick with love for Richard Clarkson, no. She was _well_ with it.

The look on his face at her words softened something around her heart she hadn't know was hardened. For a moment, he just smiled, shook his head. He spoke, at long last.

"Foolish, heartwarming, wild, brave," he repeated. "An adventure." He said, and now his voice was thick with emotion. "Well, alright, then."

"I love you, Isobel. I have for a very long time, as you know. I never thought I'd have the opportunity to say it, like this, out loud, to you. But here I am. Here you are," he laughed, but his eyes were, oh, so lovely.

"Yes, here we are. Exactly _as_ we are."

He looked at her hard for a moment. Then reach his hand out, stroked her cheek. Leaned over, and kissed her, there at the corner table in the front room of The Red Lion.

What other choice was there?


	27. Tea, Sherry & Port

**Chapter 27 – Tea, Sherry & Port**

 **The Second Week of August, 1927**

Elsie was at the desk in her office, sorting through the things to do, order and organize for the family's imminent departure for Grantham House. Lady Cora had told her just today that the Pelhams would be joining everyone from Downton at the London residence, as well, including Miss Marigold and the very new heir to Haxby, Robert Peter Pelham, not quite six months old, whom Elsie'd not clapped eyes on yet. And since _that_ baby was making an appearance, the others must, as well.

She was trying to determine the upstairs sleeping arrangements; the nursery would be filled to the brim with Downton's smallest residents – Master George, Miss Sybbie, and little Reginald Talbot; Miss Marigold and the new baby; she fervently hoped Lady Rose would leave little Victoria in New York.

"Troubles, Mrs. Hughes?"

She looked up to find Thomas Barrow standing in her doorway, a cup in each hand.

"Is my frustration that obvious, Mr. Barrow?" He came in, grinning, set the tea in front of her. "I'm worried one of the babbies will have to sleep in a coal bin, at the rate we're going. Though you are helping things along here. I thank you," she nodded, took a sip. Mrs. Powell was getting the hang of how she liked it now.

"London?" He leaned back in the chair across the desk from her, took a sip of his coffee.

"It's always a juggling act, Mr. Barrow, but I feel as if some of the pins are on fire this time," she replied, and he burst out laughing.

"You'll manage, Mrs. Hughes, I've no doubt of that," he replied. "Now, as for the staff, I was able to arrange for a nice - but reasonable – nearby boarding house for the Molesleys, so they'll not be staying at the house itself, though, obviously, both of them will be available at the family's disposal."

"That was rather considerate of you, Mr. Barrow," she glanced at him over her teacup.

"Well, in my mind, Mrs. Hughes, it's rather considerate of Mr. Molesley to agree to assist us in this instance, given his experience and his knowledge of the family, so..." He shrugged a little, his face open and calm. She'd never seen him like this, not in the twenty-plus years she'd known him. He cleared his throat a little, leaned forward. "Speaking of consideration, Mrs. Hughes, I'll not abuse your flexibility, but would you mind if, on quieter days or evenings, I took some personal time while we're in London?"

She grinned. "Not at all, Mr. Barrow," she shook her head. "Especially as I was about to ask you if you'd mind terribly if I take a few days off _after_ the hustle and bustle of the wedding. Mr. Carson's decided we should take a short jaunt to Brighton, and who am I to argue?"

"It feels like a very even exchange, Mrs. Hughes," he grinned at her. "Though a few days without you around and the whole place may come down around our ears."

"As I often tell Mr. Carson, 'flattery will get you everywhere', Mr. Barrow," she laughed. "I've only one more request to add to the negotiations."

"Yes? And what's that, Mrs. Hughes?"

"A request for Mr. Francis Holmes to join me – and yourself, obviously – for tea at some point during our stay in London. In your study or mine, at Grantham House," she smiled across at him, hoping he understood what she was offering.

"That's a rather generous request, Mrs. Hughes," Thomas blinked rapidly, looked away from her momentarily, then back again.

She remembered him through the years, his face tight with scorn, eyes darting everywhere, secreted away in some corner or the other with Sarah O'Brien. Or sobbing onto her shoulder after heartbreak and shame, she and the moonlit yard the only witnesses to his grief. The muted loneliness that surrounded him when he arrived for Lady Edith's wedding, colored with hope by the end of that fateful evening. And now, a year and a half later, a different man sat across from her, willing, no, _desirous_ for connection with other people.

"Well, as I see it, Mr. Barrow," she began, keeping her voice light. "Mr. Holmes has his aunt and uncle looking out for his best interests. It's only fair someone be looking out for yours, no?" She stood, bustled about intentionally, grabbing both of their cups and saucers. She knew he'd be embarrassed, and didn't want to accentuate the feeling.

He stood and walked to the door with her, holding it open as she passed through.

"I am certain that Fran – Mr. Holmes – would be delighted to have tea with you, Mrs. Hughes, whilst we're in London," he said at last.

She caught his gaze again now. "Please advise him to mind his cheek, Mr. Barrow."

"Worried about the competition, Mrs. Hughes?"

She burst out laughing. "Clearly, he's not the only one who needs a reminder, Mr. Barrow!" She carried on towards the kitchen to deposit the teacups in the sink.

Thomas' voice, now muted, barely reached her ears.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

She looked over her shoulder, smiled. "You're very welcome, Mr. Barrow."

oooOOOooo

She'd sorted it, all of it, for Grantham House. It'd taken some time to make sure everything was buttoned up, but, at last, it was done to her liking – and, one would hope, the family's.

She was pleased with her efforts, and glad that the afternoon was winding down. She was hoping to catch Phyllis Molesley before the woman left for the evening, to give her the bits and bobs that the seamstress needed for the grand project for Charlie. She pulled the large wooden box she'd stored the necessary items in onto her desk and had just opened it when there was a knock on her door.

"Come in!" She called out, still sorting through the contents of the box, grinning a little.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes, I hate to interrupt."

The voice startled her. She wasn't sure who she'd expected to come in to her office at this very moment, but Lady Isobel Grey would have been very far down on her list, had she been asked to gander a guess, if at all.

"Lady Isobel! Not at all, what can I do for you? Would you like tea, perhaps? I'll go tell Mrs. Powell to –"

"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Hughes, I don't expect I'll be here long," the other woman answered, and Elsie took a good look at her. "I'll take a seat, though, if you don't mind?" She came into the room, shutting the door behind her.

"Of course, please do," Elsie's mind was working a mile a minute, trying to sort the information her sharp eyes were gathering for her.

She knew from the family that Isobel Grey would not be joining them in London for Tom Branson's wedding, though she'd sent her regrets and congratulations to the bride and groom. The decision hadn't surprised Elsie particularly, nor did it seem to cause any ripples of discontent to Downton's inhabitants, so she'd not given it too much thought. Other than to mentally note that the family would, this year, be in London for Master George's birthday the first week of September, his sixth. And that Lady Isobel may prefer to spend that day on her own.

However, the woman before her seemed at ease, content. Happy, even. She was, Elsie noted, as casually dressed as she'd ever seen her, wearing a day dress not dissimilar to something she herself would wear on her day off. But it wasn't the dress, no. It was _everything_ else. Lady Isobel had seemed like someone holding her breath for a very, very long time. Now, at last, she was exhaling.

Elsie glanced over at her wall clock. Half-past five. _Why not?_ She thought, nearly laughed out loud.

"Well, if not tea, Lady Isobel, might I interest you in a glass of sherry?"

"Now that, Mrs. Hughes, is an offer I will take you up on." Elsie got up and poured them each a drink, handed one to the other woman.

"I've interrupted you, and I apologize," Isobel gestured to the box.

"Not at all, m'lady," she shook her head, closing the lid and setting the box aside. "'Tis a little project I am working on as a gift for Mr. Carson, and I need to consult with Mrs. Molesley on a few items before I leave today."

"Well, that sounds just lovely," Isobel answered, chuckling a little. The antennae of Elsie's instincts waved inside of her. Something most definitely was afoot. The woman seemed entirely _changed,_ more subtly than Thomas Barrow, but as fundamentally. "I am sure you are wondering why I am here, Mrs. Hughes."

"Curiosity is one of my defining characteristics, Lady Isobel, thought Mr. Carson might frame it as nosiness," she laughed a little.

"Being curious reminds us that we're still alive, still interested in what life has to offer, Mrs. Hughes, so I've no issue with curiosity. Nay, I am its champion," Isobel replied. "And I am here because of _another_ one of your defining characteristics, Mrs. Hughes. Your discretion."

"Yes, m'lady?" Elsie sipped her sherry, and now she understood a bit more. The woman before her had a secret, one she wanted to share. She'd not found anyone…appropriate…in other facets of her life. And so, here she was, in Elsie's office.

Isobel burst out laughing, a happy, light sound. "That's exactly what I was referring to, Mrs. Hughes. Exactly right." She cleared her throat, then pressed on. "The truth of the matter is, Mrs. Hughes, is I am getting married again."

Elsie composed herself quickly. She wasn't entirely surprised. Only a fool would not have connected the many dots between the look on Lady Isobel's face at her son's graveside when she discovered that the town doctor had been a regular visitor there and the look on her face as she danced with the same man a little over a week ago at Daisy and Andy's wedding. And Elsie certainly was no fool.

"Congratulations, m'lady," Elsie answered, with the barest hint of hesitation.

"Marvelous, Mrs. Hughes! You've not even asked me when, or to whom," Isobel retorted.

Elsie took a chance. She and the woman across from her, though different societal ranks, were often of the same mind. Besides, they'd shared far less likely secrets than this one, which nearly wasn't a secret at all, no matter what Isobel Grey thought.

"Well, m'lady, if I asked, or worse, if I didn't already _know,_ who the lucky gentleman was, I highly doubt we'd be sitting here, having this conversation," she took a sip of her sherry, the glass partially hiding her grin.

Isobel laughed again, that unrestricted, glad sound that seemed to emanate from her whole being.

" _Touché,_ Mrs. Hughes." Then she grew serious for a moment. "I've come to you, particularly, though the deed shall not be done until mid-September, for two reasons: I owe Dickie - Lord Merton - a full six months of mourning, good man that he was. And I wanted to wait until after George's birthday."

"And how can I be of assistance, m'lady?"

"Oh, I haven't said? Silly me, please forgive me, Mrs. Hughes, it's been a...heady...few weeks," the other woman replied. "All of this will be done with as little fuss as possible. We need two witnesses, and though I know they can easily be provided to us, both I and the gentleman in question wanted to ask people that we knew. So…I am asking you, Mrs. Hughes, if you would."

"Well, of course, m'lady, if you think I am the right person to –"

"I do think you are, Mrs. Hughes, very much so, and please know I – and Dr. Clarkson, there's not beating about the bush at this juncture – would be very grateful for you presence," Isobel interrupted. "He has a colleague, a friend he's worked with at the hospital, who will stand up with him, but…" She trailed off, thinking. Elsie waited, gave her an encouraging smile.

"I'm lucky enough to have people who love me in my life, Mrs. Hughes, many of whom live in this very house," she gazed upward. "And don't even know I am here, speaking to you, right now, about being engaged." She shrugged, a rueful, knowing thing. She seemed both contented and sad.

 _Respond carefully, Elsie. She's looking for a friend, not for bowing and scraping._

"Lady Isobel, I'd very much like to stand with you on your wedding day, and I thank you for asking me," Elsie sipped her sherry, then topped both of their glasses off. She held hers aloft.

"A toast to you, Lady Isobel," she said, then took a chance. "To your being a doctor's wife, again."

The other woman looked momentarily startled, then her face split into a sunny grin. She laughed. "It's where I belong, Mrs. Hughes. I've got to toast to that."

And so they did.

oooOOOooo

She walked into their cottage a few hours later, her head still full of the busyness and revelations of the day. She thought of getting the opportunity to find out a bit more about Francis Holmes, to really understand who this man was that had, at last, captured Thomas Barrow's heart and treated it properly. She thought of Isobel Grey, seeming more like the woman she'd been before her son died, full of energy and curiosity but without the brashness that had defined her initial arrival at Downton and the village.

 _Some things just take time, a lot of time,_ she thought as she removed her hat. She heard Charlie humming to himself in the kitchen. _You should know that as well as anyone, you ninny._ She laughed to herself, bringing the basket Mrs. Powell had packed into the kitchen.

"What's that you're humming, then?" She greeted Charlie, who she was satisfied to see had set the table, placed the bread and butter out already. There was a glass of port at each of their spots.

"A love song, of course," he came over, and whirled her around a few times, basket and all.

"You're in a mood, then, Mr. Carson!" She exclaimed, unpacking the simple supper Downton's cook had packed for them.

"I am in a mood, a very good one, I am sure you'll note Elsie," he grinned at her as they sat for dinner. "I've finalized our trip to Brighton, and I'm quite pleased." He toasted her, and she clinked glasses with him, thinking of her sherry with Isobel Grey, and further back, to teacups with Thomas Barrow.

"Well, that's lovely Charlie! Have you budgeted a few penny licks for us, by the sea?" She teased a little, then leaned over and kissed him heartily. "I'm very much looking forward to our getaway by the shore, Mr. Carson. Though the Crystal Palace has its draws too, of course."

"It's a wonder I can get a word in edgewise with all of your impertinence," he grumbled as she dished up vegetables and meat onto their plates. But the corner of his mouth was twitching in a grin. They began eating, and for a moment, neither spoke, absorbed in their dinner.

"What made you do it? I've always wanted to ask, you know," he finally spoke, startling her.

"Made me do what?" She bit back laughter.

"Elsie." His eyebrow went up.

"I knew some day ye'd ask me, and I knew the answer would _always_ be a disappointment: nothing, particularly," she shrugged. "I didn't really think about it, honestly, Charlie. It…it began as teasing, I suppose, like so many other times before it…" she trailed off, thinking. Taking his hand, four years ago, on that beach. "It didn't seem…different…until after I'd already done it. When I was already holding your hand."

His reached out, and took hers, across their little dinner table. "And then…it seemed different, Elsie?" He was smiling, but his eyes were earnest.

"It did," she sighed. "It did, Charlie, because I didn't want to let go." She felt silly, embarrassed. Which was ridiculous. This man knew every curve and line of her. He knew her heart.

"Nor did I," he answered, and his voice was soft now. "Funny, isn't it? Something so small could bring us here."

She shook her head. "Nae, if I'd not teased you on the beach, took you hand t'would have been something else. We'd have gotten here, by hook or by crook, one way or another, Mr. Carson. I'm sure of it."

"You are? How?"

"I'd not love you for so long, and not share this supper with you. This _life_ with you," she stood again, and this time, kissed him far longer than the first, their meal getting cold and neither of them minding.


	28. Finding a Place

**Chapter 28 – Finding a Place**

She was in the modest sitting room at Crawley House, pretending to read a novel while alternately gazing out the window and humming half-remembered Scottish folk tunes under her breath, a small smile dancing on and off her face. It was a week to the day since Richard Clarkson has leaned over that tiny table in the corner of the Lion and drawn a line under something that likely should have happened years ago.

It was so strange, this. She felt extraordinarily…relaxed. She was happy, of course, and guilty and nervous and a tad giddy. But mostly, she felt simply calm. As if so much that had been unfocused and uncertain in her life, unbalanced, had at last been set right.

What had Elsie Hughes, bless her, said, when she toasted her yesterday? _To you being a doctor's wife, again._ She understood what Isobel had been feeling for so long, out-of-place and out-of-sorts. Isobel had thought it was to do with her title, and then becoming a widow so soon after remarrying. It had always been about more than those things.

The doorbell rang and she could hear Mariah, the housemaid, greeting someone at the door. Isobel had done away with a butler long ago. The voice in the hall was familiar and thrilling, all at once. She stood.

Richard appeared in the doorway, looking mildly sheepish and decidedly handsome.

"Tea or coffee, Dr. Clarkson?" Mariah looked at him expectantly.

He paused for a moment, grinned at Isobel. Her heart fluttered. "No, Mariah, I better not, as tempting as the idea is. I'm on my way to the hospital, and I want to get my work day begun and finished as quickly as possible."

"Very good, Dr. Clarkson."

The maid pulled the door shut behind her, and the two of them just looked at each other for a few moments, from across the room.

"What an unexpected treat to –"

"I didn't mean to barge in, I merely wanted to see –"

The each began speaking at the same time and both laughed a little. He gestured for her to speak, and she shrugged, resisting the urge to close the distance between them in three great strides, rest her head against his chest. The desire to do so was wonderfully strong, and hard to resist.

"I've nothing remarkable to say, Richard," she said, quietly, still enjoying using his given name here, in her house, outside the friendly anonymity of the Lion.

"That's unlikely," he retorted, the grin tugging more forcibly at the corner of his mouth.

"I was merely going to spout some nicety about you dropping in, when I would like to –" She stopped herself. She wasn't quite ready to verbalize exactly what it was she wanted to do with the good doctor. She felt herself grow warm in various places.

"Isobel?"

"You look like a man on a mission, Doctor, so please, do carry on," she smiled at him, trying to settle herself a little.

"I am, and though I'd like to linger," he responded, "Duty calls. I was wondering if you'd have dinner with me tonight? Something a bit further afield than the Arms…I was thinking we could take the tramcar to York?"

"What a fine idea! Yes, please, I would love to," she replied, her heartbeat speeding up again.

"Excellent," he answered, then paused. She could feel that he, too, wanted to close the distance between them. But was uncertain if that was acceptable or not, after all of the years unable to do so. "I'll pick you up around half past four, then?"

She nodded, and he gathered himself to leave, heading towards the parlor door. There was still far too much space between them for her liking, and it was growing by the moment. She intercepted him, placing her hand on the knob before he could.

"Thank you in advance for the adventure, then, this evening," she gazed at him. He was close enough, now, that she could feel the warmth of his body.

"How are you certain it will be? An adventure, I mean," he replied.

"Call it a hunch, I suppose, or woman's intuition," she answered, then leaned over and kissed him, lingeringly, at the corner of his mouth. His mustache tickled her lips.

"With you, Isobel, it is _certain_ to be one," he said, and his regard for her warmed his whole countenance. He leaned over in response, and didn't go by halves, as she had; he kissed her full on the mouth, a gesture that shouted out all of the long years he'd waited, more so than any of the few kisses they'd shared in the week since the Lion.

She made a small, glad sound, then backed away. "I'll see you this afternoon, then, Doctor."

"Until then," he placed his hat back on his head.

"And I've not forgotten – you still owe me a story about something I don't know already," she teased. "You gave me foolish, heartwarming, wild and brave last week, at the Lion, _however -_."

"A man can't _always_ acquiesce, Isobel, even if he's in love," he chuckled.

"But he can sometimes, no? Half the time, even, Richard?" She was enjoying herself too much, and her heart squeezed in her chest a little, for the first time during all of this. _How many years, Isobel? How much time, did you waste, you foolish woman? For_ everyone _touched by your foolishness?_

"You must go, now, to the hospital," she said at last, her voice snagging, her throat tightening.

"Indeed, I must," he answered. "Isobel? Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine. Just constantly reminded these days about what a fool I've been, and how I somehow arrived on the other side of it unscathed."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," he whispered, kissed her cheek lightly.

"Go," she pushed him out the door, laughing, but with tears rolling down her face. "Go, you lovely, wonderful man. I will see you later."

oooOOOooo

Phyllis grinned as she watched the Yorkshire countryside roll by in a blur of green. She'd not want to live in London anymore, but it _was_ nice to visit now and again, from time to time. And this trip had extra appeal: Elsie Hughes and Thomas Barrow had so much as said she and Joe would get some time off - an afternoon here, and evening there – to go explore the city as they saw fit.

Rather wonderful, that. She smiled in anticipation for a moment, hugging herself a little

She turned away from the rolling countryside to face the older woman across from her. Elsie Hughes caught her eye and smiled. She, too, had been daydreaming out the window. This train ride was a fine little respite between the craziness of getting the family situated for the journey itself and the busyness of arrival and unpacking and sorting through things.

"I never mind the train ride to and from – do you, Mrs. Molesley?" Downton's housekeeper grinned a little.

"I was just thinking something similar, Mrs. Hughes," she replied. "It's nice to have this time before the madness begins in London," she answered. She considered something, then leaned over a little.

"You know, Mrs. Hughes, I've had some time to work on the project, for Mr. Carson. Would you like to see what I've done so far?"

"Would I, Mrs. Molesley! Have you got it here? Ye've brought it with you, then?" Elsie exclaimed, then looked round a tad self-consciously. She needn't have minded; their car, by coincidence or good luck, was empty, save them and a dozing Thomas Barrow, who was seated across the aisle from them. Joe had wandered forward, towards the dining car, a short time ago, and to check on the family, traveling first class, of course, rather than disturb Downton's slumbering butler to do so.

"I do…" Phyllis stood, pulled the fabric, which was wrapped and folded inside one of her bags, out. She was rather excited to show the other woman; it was such a lovely idea, and it made her happy to work on it. She carefully unwrapped it and spread it across her lap. She smiled down at it, pressing her fingertips along the unfinished, embroidered image they'd sewn there. "I thought I'd bring it with me, in case there was time-"

She broke off when she saw the look on Elsie Hughes' face.

"Mrs. Molesley, it's marvelous," the older women made to reach out, then pulled her hand back.

"Go on, Mrs. Hughes, it's yours, after all," she passed it gently over to Downton's housekeeper, who looked suspiciously close to tears.

"Well, ye've outdone yourself, I will say," Elsie Hughes smiled down at the cloth in her hand, pressing her own fingers over the shapes she herself had cut from the pattern Phyllis had given her. She passed it back to Phyllis, looking her straight in the eye. "I don't know how I'll satisfactorily thank you for your work, Mrs. Molesley, but I can guarantee you, I'll certainly try."

"What's that, then, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Molesley?" Thomas Barrow's voice interrupted them, muted with the residue of sleep.

"Something marvelous she's created, from my mind to her talented hands," Elsie Hughes laughed. Thomas stood, looked down at Phyllis' work with eyes still half in dreams.

"For Mr. Carson, then, Mrs. Hughes?" Thomas glanced over at her. "Given the rather…historical aspect of it, that would be my guess."

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Barrow. The idea is familiar enough, however, if you look closely, you'll see I put my own...particular…spin on what the final product will look like," Elsie Hughes grinned over at Phyllis as Thomas sat alongside her. Phyllis handed the item in question over to him, tapping her finger on a certain spot to draw his attention to it.

He looked up at her, the surprise on his face so comical she nearly burst out laughing.

"That's _my_ name," he said, glancing between the two women.

"I said it had a certain perspective to it, didn't I, Mr. Barrow?"

"There's no one quite like you, is there, Mrs. Hughes?" His grin was sly and teasing, but both women could hear the deep regard in his tone.

Just then, the door to their compartment slid open, and Joe appeared in the doorway, followed by the much taller, bulkier form of Francis Holmes.

"Look who I bumped into a few cars up!"

"Good morning, everyone," Francis greeted them as Phyllis packed away the precious fabric, his eyes lingering momentarily on Thomas.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Thomas greeted him, smiling. "I thought you were getting the first train this morning?"

Francis chuckled, shrugged extravagantly at all of them, "That was the plan, but I couldn't manage to organize myself in time. I missed it by minutes, but in this instance, I'll call it good luck to travel in all of your company, rather than blame my own scatterbrained approach to traveling."

"You do realize, Mr. Holmes, this doesn't excuse you from tea in my study at Grantham House," Elsie teased as he took the seat next to her, across from Thomas and Phyllis.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Carson. I know I need to be thoroughly inspected, to see if I pass muster or not," he joked. "Thomas was put through the paces as well, at my aunt and uncle's."

"Yes, Hector and Vi certainly put me through the ringer," Thomas' face was still flushed, but his wry tone was back. "Very tough audience, those two. As is Mrs. Hughes, I am sure you'll find, Francis." The men exchanged a warm, humor-filled glance, and if they others in the train car noticed Thomas' easy use of Francis' first name, they didn't let on.

"We're being terribly rude to Joe," Francis stood suddenly, and the group rearranged themselves so the men were seated on one side of the aisle the women on the other.

"And what are your grand plans, once we're in town, Mr. Holmes?"

"Other than tea at Grantham House, you mean, Mrs. Carson?"

Elsie laughed. "Yes, other than that."

"Well, I'm itching for new fabric stock, so I've got to head to that part of town for a serious amount of time – Phyllis, care to join me?"

"I'd love it, if the family's schedule allows, and it's alright with you Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Barrow?"

"I am sure we can sort something out," Thomas said easily, and Elsie nodded in agreement.

"And I've lots of mates in town, Mrs. Carson, who I'd like to catch up with. See some sights, old and new, with some good company," Francis' eyes caught Thomas'. "It's a pity we can't _all_ plan something together, but that'd not work out, would it?"

"Unfortunately not, Mr. Holmes, but such is a life of service, for good or ill," Elsie sighed, and grinned. "But I am sure the lot of you can manage and evening together, with me and Mrs. Powell holding down the fort at the house."

"That's generous of you, Mrs. Hughes," Joe said. "And Mr. Barrow, arranging for lodging for us as well."

"Well, we're all family, really, aren't we, Mr. Molesley? Oughtn't we help each other out, if we can?" Thomas said, his voice light. The others paused for a moment, both of the women thinking of the embroidered fabric in Phyllis' bag, and of the simple truth of the butler's statement.

Then the moment was over, popping like a bubble shimmering in the breeze, and they all began chatting happily about the adventures that awaited them, amidst the hard work, on the other end of the train ride.


	29. The Best of You, and the Rest of You

**Chapter 29 – The Best of You, and the Rest of You**

 **A/N: Chef here, not a doctor. Just sayin'. Of course, let me know if something about this is so wrong it ticks you off. ~CeeCee**

It was nearly time for Richard to arrive for the jaunt to York, and she was tingling with anticipation and happiness. The bell announced someone's arrival at Crawley House's front door, and her stomach rose and fell pleasantly.

However, when Mariah appeared, it wasn't with a smiling Dr. Clarkson in tow. In fact, the maid's forehead was wrinkled in consternation.

"What is it, Mariah?"

"There's a lad from the hospital outside, he's given me this, but asked I wait for a reply from you, m'lady," she handed Isobel a folded, hastily-written note. She hardly glanced at it; she simply walked past the housemaid to the hall, where a boy of about thirteen or fourteen was standing.

"Hello, m'lady," the lad had his cap in his hands, was twisting it about.

"Dr. Clarkson's sent you, then? What is it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded. "He's gone to the Lewis house, by the train station. They've a baby comin' and they can't find the missus' midwife. She must be on another call. He said I should bring you that note there, to let you know he would be late, you see."

"Right, then. Mariah, can I have my coat and jacket? What's your name, then, son?"

"Eddie Simpson, m'lady," he flushed beet red, shoved his cap on his head.

"Ah, I knew you looked a bit familiar. Friend of Johnny Willis, bicycling daredevil _extraordinaire."_ She grinned at him as she hastily put her hat on, shrugged into her jacket. "You've got yourself a job at the hospital, then?" The boy nodded, and, though she hadn't thought it was possible, he grew redder.

"Well, Master Simpson, lead the way to the Lewises' house, please."

Both the lad and Mariah spoke at once: "You're going, then, m'lady?"

She laughed aloud at their unintended Greek chorus. "Indeed, I am. Onward, please, Eddie!"

oooOOOooo

"The nurse is here, Dr. Clarkson!" Mr. Michael Lewis, soon-to-be-father, shouted her arrival down a hallway that smelled of a half-prepared dinner. The young man look frazzled, his dark hair sticking up in all directions, his shirt translucent with sweat at the neck. She could hear his wife's groans coming from the opposite end of hall.

"Mr. Lewis, I –" She tried to speak to the man, but he was already turning away to hang her coat and hat up on the hooks at the door. She didn't know the Lewises at all; based on the location and state of their little brick home, including its proximity to the train station, the husband of the house likely had a junior position in a profession, like a clerk or a junior solicitor, in York, but wanted a larger house in the quainter Downton Village.

"Is she, then? Good," Richard appeared at the doorway at the end of the hall, his shirtsleeves rolls to the elbows, and caught her eye. He looked amused and thoroughly unsurprised that she was standing there. He also looked worried, his eyes dark.

"Nurse? If you will?" He was trying to communicate something to her, and she was trying to read his face.

"Yes, of course Doctor," she went to follow him. Before she did, she turned to the expectant father. "Mr. Lewis, don't worry. I know we've not got the midwife, but we'll take care of her." She squeezed his arm, trying to catch his eye. He was clearly stressed, and she wanted to focus him. "Do you think, perhaps, you could get us some towels and hot water, then?" The man nodded, his eyes still wide but clearer.

She followed Richard towards the bedroom where Mrs. Lewis was waiting for them.

"Did you even read the note?" He murmured to her. She shook her head. "Of course you didn't." He chuckled a little.

"You knew I'd come," she said.

"'Knew' is a strong word, but yes, I am not surprised," he bent his head close to hers. "I've only seen Alice Lewis twice during her pregnancy; after that, the midwife took over, and I'm sorry she's not here, though very glad you are, Isobel."

"I'll ignore such blatant flattery, as you certainly can handle a delivery on your own," she answered, but she was deeply pleased. They paused at the water closet in the hallway so she could scrub her hands clean. "Is she progressing well, then?"

"She's a little early, almost a month, which is of course, concerning. But she's young, healthy and the baby is turned and ready," he paused, pushing the door open. "Just not ready enough for me to be on time for our dinner."

She shared one last, warm look with him before entering the room to sooth the distressed young mother, sweaty and moaning, on the bed.

oooOOOooo

An hour later, she and Richard exchanged a glance over Alice Lewis' flushed face. Something just wasn't…right. They stepped out of the room for a moment. She had an idea, tickling at the back of her mind, but didn't want to be an alarmist. Nor did she want to upset their easy rapport by being too aggressive in her opinions.

"What is it?" He looked closely at her.

"I'm unsure…"

"No, you aren't. You've an idea, and I'd like to hear it."

"Would you? Who am I, to tell you how to handle your patient?"

"A different song than you used to sing," he answered, looking rueful. "Don't tell me you're getting soft in your later years, Lady Grey?"

"I'll ignore the direct insult to my age, Doctor, by addressing the other half of that comment," she retorted, but she was smiling a little. She was also quite worried about the young woman in the room beyond. Her pains, they didn't seem exactly…

"Out with it, Isobel. I've made more mistakes than I care to recall in my time, and I've missed twice as much. I value your opinion, even for a fresh perspective. And you have one more benefit I mostly certainly do not – you've been through this, your body's been through this. If something seems…odd…you might instinctively pick it up in a way I wouldn't, as a man."

She took a deep breath. "Her pain. Not the intensity, just how she's describing it. It seems like…more than contractions. I was wondering…could it be her appendix?"

Richard's face suddenly lit up, like a man stumbling around in a dim room at last finding the light switch.

"My God. Of course. It's a strong possibility, and explains a lot…" He trailed off, then turned, rushed down the hallway to the anxiously waiting Michael Lewis. She heard the men conferring, and then Richard speaking on the phone in the Lewises' sitting room. The expectant father came up to her.

"Doc says we need to get to the hospital, they're coming for my Alice now. Can I sit with her, Nurse, until they arrive?"

"Of course you can, tell her they're going to take excellent care of her and the baby. Don't you worry, Mr. Lewis." She watched him bend over his wife, take her hand. Smooth her wet hair away from her face.

Richard reappeared at her side, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed against each other. "Our dinner this evening will be impossible, of course." He glanced over at her, held her gaze.

"Of course," she chuckled. "But a round of what I hope will be celebratory drinks at the Lion _might_ be possible, no, Doctor?"

"You can say anything to me, do you know that? Don't doubt yourself…or me," his voice was warm, but his face, serious.

The last unsettled bits of her suddenly eased inside of her, took root, the moment he said it. However, what came out of her mouth was, "I could be wrong, you know."

"You could be. I think you're right, but you _could_ be wrong. It doesn't matter, in any case. I'll not hold it against you, you know," he grinned broadly at her. "There's no need to be anything but yourself with me Isobel, right or wrong. _That_ is what I am saying."

And he brushed past her to sooth and instruct his patient - _their_ _patient_ , her mind insisted on whispering - and her husband, readying them for the arrival of the medics and the trip to the hospital.

She leaned against the doorframe for a brief minute, gathering herself, before, once again, stirring into action. She was moving forward, at long last.


	30. Lessons Learned

**Chapter 29 - Lessons Learned**

 **A/N: This chappie is a belated birthday dedication to the wonderful, incomparable canadianjudy!**

 **~CeeCee**

Elsie took a sip of the fragrant, strong tea Mrs. Powell had brought to her, rubbed her hands across her tired eyes. The trip to London had been uneventful, truly pleasant, even, sharing the train compartment with Thomas, the Molesleys and Francis Holmes, whom she was liking more and more each time she met him.

But she wasn't as young as she used to be, and her body was weary from the trip, her mind, from the busyness of getting the family well-settled in Grantham House. A boisterous, happy reunion dinner was currently winding down in the in the sitting room above her, the generations speaking over each other in their excitement to catch up.

The most noticeable change to Elsie were Ladies Mary and Edith. They were meeting as equals, finally. Yes, of course, _technically_ Lady Edith now socially outranked her sister, but no matter; this wasn't about social status, not really. The two women, were, at last, both content and productive: each happily married to loving partners, mothers on their own terms, and each, in her unique way, independent business women swimming in the swirling waters of the modern world, a world where the old lines between rich and poor were constantly bent, adjusted, and sometimes, broken when needed. There was a warmth and friendliness, an _easiness_ between them, at long last, and it did Elsie's heart good to witness it. It was extraordinary to see such old, deep wounds, on both sides, healing, slowly but surely.

She sighed, went to take another sip of tea, and realized she'd already drained her cup. She rose, shaking her head. She would need further fortification to finish out the day's work. It wasn't simply the work, of course; she could admit that she was missing her husband especially this evening. She'd felt it especially on the train, with the younger couples; there was an energy of anticipation and excitement for their arrival in London that she wasn't a part of. She'd not see Charlie until the end of the week, when he arrived in town for Tom Branson's wedding. Then he'd be off to Brighton, for last-minute preparations for their stay there.

 _You're getting quite sentimental in your old age, you ninny,_ she thought dryly. _Get yourself together, then, Elsie._

She opened the door to her office and nearly dropped her tea cup. Charlie was standing there in his good tan traveling suit, his shaky hand raised to knock, the steady one, holding a small tray with a pot of tea, two cups, and some ginger snaps.

"Charlie! You nearly took years' worth of life off'a me! What in heaven's name are you doing here, you daft man?!" She grabbed the doorframe for support, but she couldn't help but grin up at him. How had he known, she'd be missing him, and badly? Or maybe, he'd just been missing her, as well, though it'd been less than a day since they'd clapped eyes on each other.

"Not the welcome I was expecting, but I'll forgive you this once, Elsie," he came in, set the tray down on her desk. She shut the door behind her, then did something she didn't expect to do: she fell against him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

"That's better," he said, chuckling, raising his eyebrow. She laughed, pressing her nose against his suit jacket, breathed in the smell of him.

"Enough nonsense," she pulled away, shaking her head. But she was grinning broadly, she couldn't help it. She went back to her desk and he sat across from her. "It bears repeating, Charlie: what are you doing here? I was expecting to see you in five days, before Tom Branson's wedding."

"You may find this hard to believe, Elsie, but…I decided, spontaneously, to come up to London before the wedding, without any further plans than that," he grinned at her in a way particularly uncharacteristic for him; he appeared delighted in the fact that he'd shocked her, and rather than assuage her surprise, he was reveling in it.

"Ye never did!" She exclaimed, resisting the urge to swat him. She was working, after all, and anyone could come through her office door at any moment, with little more than a perfunctory rap on the door. "Where is the man I've known nearly half my life, then?"

He didn't speak, just kept smiling that sideways smile. He poured her tea, fixed it perfectly to her liking. "You seem nearly as surprised of my presence here today, Mrs. Hughes, as you did when I proposed."

"More surprised, I think," she sipped the fresh cuppa. "The proposal, at least, I sensed was coming, at least in the back of my mind. Or, I should have, if I didn't." She smiled at him over the rim of her cup. "This, Mr. Carson, is a departure from the expected. There's no way I could have predicted your arrival with a fresh cup of tea at exactly the moment I needed it."

"In any case, you'll not be unchaperoned for the final wedding of the summer," he stood and so did she.

"Well, technically," she replied, then caught herself. She'd sworn herself to secrecy when it came to Isobel Grey's news.

"What's that supposed to mean? Is there an elopement I'm not aware of? What staff have we left? Obviously, Mr. Barrow's not getting married any time soon," he rolled his eyes.

"Behave yourself, or I'll not tell you my secret, and even still, I'll not spill the beans until we're safely away in Brighton," she came over to him again, and, again, couldn't help herself: she reached up and ran her thumb across his well-loved face. "And leave Thomas Barrow alone, the man's happier than he's been…well, ever, I think. If the particulars discomfit you, I suggest you avoid pondering them."

"That I will, then, and leave the subject at this: I am glad for Mr. Barrow, and Mr. Holmes is one of the finest tailors in Yorkshire. You can't fault me for those observations," he finished, and turned to kiss her hand.

"Aye, that's rather generous, all things considered," she sighed. "Really, though, Charlie, what changed your mind?"

"The answer is simple and obvious: I missed you, more than I expected, and five days seemed too long. I am certain that I can entertain myself in this great city whilst you are busy with wedding preparation. The Crystal Palace, Madame Tussaud's…there's so much to learn, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do, you old booby," she laughed, pressed her face against his chest again, knowing she must be rid of him, at least temporarily, so she could finish what needed doing. "But I'll take a risk and say we learned more in the surf at Brighton than we'd ever learn at those places, or any museum or library."

"You know, Elsie? I can't say you're wrong." And then his laughter joined hers.

oooOOOooo

She was breaking all sorts of rules she'd not realized she'd been following, and for some time. Was it odd that she wasn't particularly bothered by it? She laughed to herself as she pushed the door to the Lion open, unchaperoned. What a marvelously unnecessary word in her life: "chaperoned". She'd gotten _herself_ here, and she was glad of it.

She scanned the room quickly, her eyes lingering on the corner table she now thought of theirs, but she didn't see him here, not yet. She knew if he'd not be able to make it, he would have sent word, or called. It was still relatively early, for the Lion, especially, and Jenny the barkeep noticed her first thing when she walked in.

Her drink was practically made by the time she crossed the short distance to the bar. She laughed.

"I thank you, Jenny, kindly," she sipped. It tasted as wonderful as it had the first time.

"My pleasure, Izzy. On your own tonight, then?"

"Not at all. Richard is running late, he's –" She cut herself off, thinking. This _was_ the Lion, after all. "What's the protocol, then? Should I not mention his profession, or…?"

Jenny burst out laughing. "No, no, Izzy. 'Tis alright. 'T'would be hard to live and work in Downton, and not know he's the doc. And we all know loads about each other here, even the less obvious things. _Especially_ the less obviously things, don't you know. We just…don't worry ourselves with them. We worry ourselves with the _people_ , not the things, if that makes any sense a'tall."

"It makes all kinds of sense, Jenny. I wish it worked that way out there, as well, sometimes," she sipped her drink again. "Richard is late because…because he's taking care of a woman, a woman who might have died, earlier today, while she was having her first baby. But…he saved her. _We_ saved her, actually. Together. It was a marvelous feeling, I have to admit." She didn't know why she was speaking so openly to the friendly but still relatively unknown bartender. But she didn't mind it, somehow.

"Sounds brilliant, Izzy," she answered, pouring herself a Scotch, neat. She poured another, set it on the bar next to Isobel, in anticipation of Richard's arrival. "Taking care of folks, together, then. That's who you and Richard are, it seems. A grand team." The younger woman lit a thin, hand-rolled cigarette, lit it. Smiled at her through the fine smoke.

"That's exactly it. We're a grand team." It was all so simple, sitting here at the bar in the Lion. Why had she made it so complicated? Why had life made it so complicated, the rules of the world?

There was suddenly a warm hand on her shoulder. She looked up and there he was.

"Isobel," he grinned at her.

"Richard," she answered. "Well?"

"It _was_ her appendix, and we did have to operate. She also had a baby, a very healthy girl, Leonora."

"That's wonderful!" She exclaimed, and resisted the urge to take his face in her hands. He looked happy, yes, but so very, very tired. "You must be utterly exhausted. You ought to be home, not here."

"But you aren't there, Isobel," he sipped the drink Jenny had left him, held her gaze. "And, I will admit, I am feeling all of my years right now, but I wanted to see you before the evening was through." He leaned towards her, and her heart thumped deliciously in her throat. "It was good, you know. Having you there, today. You saved Alice Lewis, I can't say otherwise."

She shook her head. "No, _we_ saved her, together."

"Together," he savored the words. "So odd, at last, hearing you say these things. Sometimes, I wonder if I've gone mad."

"No, Richard, it was me. I was the one not seeing things clearly. But now I do, and you must believe me. I am still as obstinate and opinionated and stubborn and –"

He was laughing, hard.

"What?"

"I wouldn't want you any other way, you realize?"

"I do now. Thank goodness."

"We make a good team, Isobel."

"That seems to be the consensus, Richard, and I can't disagree." She put her drink down, and didn't think: she leaned over and kissed him, at the bar at the Lion, for all to see.


	31. Past is Past

**Chapter 31 – Past is Past**

 **A/N: I had the idea of this chapter floating around in my head for awhile; it's a Thomas and Francis chapter, an important one in their budding relationship. I hope you all enjoy it! ~CeeCee**

He couldn't help it, the grin that spread across his face; his heart raced gleefully as he zigzagged through the boisterous, swirling crowds of Picadilly, thrilling at the freedom of being out on the town this late, when nearly all who dwelt at Grantham House were long bedded down, heading towards Francis, towards an evening together, here in London.

The late summer night was at its apogee: the post-theater and post-opera crowd glamorous, hungry, thirsty for drink and dance, the ladies' black winged eyeliner slightly smudged, ready for something far less formal than a Wager aria. The street cart sellers calling out all sorts of inexpensive treats and temptations. The city was loose but not yet sloppy; it was the exactly right time to be wandering through the happy throngs.

He headed down a side street, keeping a close eye on the building numbers; 78 ½ A, that's what he was looking for, and his eyes finally spotted it, a bright blue door. His grin widened. _The Red Lion in Downton, The Blue Peacock in Picadilly…_ and he pushed it open expectantly.

This place was posher, the clientele less casual, than the Lion. And while he noticed the crowd was mixed, both in age and gender, he noted that it was less democratic than the Lion, as well; it was primarily comprised of extraordinarily well-dressed men in their thirties and forties. He was glad he'd heeded Francis' request he don his best this evening, a suit he had crafted for Thomas himself.

Francis had said to meet him in the second room, where the entertainment was, and as Thomas pushed his way through the well-dressed crowd, he felt several pairs of admiring eyes following his passage. No matter; while there had been a time in his life he would have relished multiple sources of such attention, there was only one man's eyes he cared to draw his way these days.

He was through the archway and was struck still for a moment. There were three people on the stage about fifty feet away, moving with languid grace, dressed in feathered costumes that gave their wearers the appearance, of course, of magnificent peacocks. And though his eyes suggested otherwise, he knew immediately the performers were men. _Fascinating._ This room was larger, less crowded than the front. There were small, round tables scattered artistically about, as well as deep, ox-blood colored settees and ottomans, dotted with patrons drinking and chatting.

He scanned the room, searching, searching…and his heart leapt happily and settled in his chest when he spotted the broad, dashing, bearded figure of Francis, standing by the far wall, talking animatedly with another well-dressed man. He weaved his way over, more slowly this time, now that he had Francis in his sight. He watched as a single, azure-colored feather drifted from the arm of one of the performers on stage to the ground.

He placed his hand lightly on Francis' shoulder. He turned, grinning, and kissed him in the tender spot above his temple that sent delicious tingles in all directions, radiating outward.

"Hello," he murmured in Thomas' ear. "At last."

"Hello," Thomas answered back, smiling. "Duty before beauty, you know."

"Ah, thank goodness you've arrived, now Frank can stop straining his neck muscles, looking for ye," the other men greeted him, laughing. He was tall, thin and handsome in a way that reminded Thomas of a hunting dog, with light hair graying at the temples. A Scottish accent tugged playfully at his words.

"Thomas Barrow," he proffered his hand across the table, leaning slight into Francis' welcoming body.

"Kenneth Reid," the man gripped it in greeting. "But ye best just call me Reidy, everyone does."

The three of them settled themselves at one of the small tables. A startlingly good-looking lad with back-swept blond hair appeared, took their order, his eyes lingering admiringly on Reidy as he walked towards the bar to collect their drinks.

"He'll be bringing you an extra round, no charge, Reidy, mark my words," Thomas intoned dryly, and the three of them laughed.

"It's my dubious, unique charm, Thomas," Reidy replied, grinning at him sideways. "Wooing doe-eyed lads by flinging names of various cocktails in their general direction. Poetry is wholly overrated. Or I should say one of my dubious charms, as I have many, of course."

They were all laughing when the waiter came back, set the drinks before them. Reidy went to hand him several bills, but he waved it away.

"They've been paid for," he shook his head, jerking his head backwards. "By a gentleman at the bar."

"Which gentleman? Can't be _too_ gentlemanly, if he's paid for all three drinks. I believe that's what's called 'hedging your bets'," Reidy teased, rolled his eyes at Francis and Thomas. The waiter blushed, the others laughed.

"The dark-haired man, two seats in from the end. In the gray suit," the lad pointed and they all looked. The man in question was smiling over at them, raising his own drink. He was nice- but unremarkable-looking to Thomas, save his eyes, which were hooded, long-lashed and framed with thick, dark eyebrows; somewhere in his late fifties, with a wide nose that appeared to have been broken at least once and an impeccably groomed black mustache. His suit was as fine as any Thomas had seen Robert Crawley wear.

"Frank," Reidy spoke, his voice tight. Thomas turned towards him, startled at the change in his tone.

"Yes, I see," Francis' voice was small. Thomas shifted his gaze over. Francis was looking at the man as if he'd been punched in the gut. Something turned uneasily in his own stomach

"Love, we'll pay for our own drinks, if you don't mind," Reidy's voice was light, but Thomas could hear steel underneath. "And if the other gentleman fusses about that, and he might, you just come back and see your good friend Kenneth, right?" The waiter nodded, pocketing the bills Reidy held out to him.

"Francis?" Thomas said after a moment. Reidy was looking at them. Francis was still looking at the man who'd tried to pay for their drinks.

"My past, Thomas," he glanced over at him, then at Reidy, who had pulled out a cigar, lit it. Reidy nodded encouragingly at his friend to continue. "That man is James Newsome. Jim. We lived together for almost eight years. Right after…right after…I left my father's house."

" _Distant_ past, Frank," Reidy said, his voice gentle.

"And yet, Reidy, I can't seem to shake him," Francis sighed heavily.

Thomas' stomach churned. "What does he want, Francis?"

"Right now? To cause trouble, something he's terribly good at," Francis murmured, gulping half his drink. He stood, looked down at Thomas. "But I'm not going to let him. I'll be right back," he leaned over and kissed him, and Thomas wondered if was for the benefit of the watching Jim Newsome. The warm look in Francis' eyes, however, was solely for him.

"Frank," Reidy said again.

"It's fine, Reidy. It's safe. Look where we are," Francis strode across the room with a final glance back.

"Alright, mate," Reidy sighed after him. Both he and Thomas watched Francis approach Newsome, who wore a tight, dangerous smile. Thomas wished he could see Francis' face, but he could see the tension in the lines of his broad back, the way he was standing.

"You don't have to tell me any details, Reidy," Thomas began carefully. "But is this going to be okay? Should I – or you – go over there?"

"Maybe," Reidy answered, the tip of his cigar smoldering. "Not yet. And if it has to be someone, it should be me. Newsome is a dangerous bloke, Thomas. There's something wrong with him through and through."

"What do you mean?" Thomas wanted desperately to shake the man, force him to tell him exactly what was going on, or, better yet, dash across the crowded room and yank Francis away from the odious Mr. Jim Newsome. He stomach churned with jealousy, fear and apprehension. "I appreciate you don't want to tell all of Francis' secrets, but what does that mean, Reidy? Francis lived with him for nearly a decade…so?"

"You know we've been mates since we were little more than lads, I know you know that," Reidy finally began. Thomas was listening to him, but watching Francis and the older man. Newsome placed his hand on Francis' shoulder, flashed Thomas a toothy grin. Francis didn't shake his hand off, much to his despair.

"Get to the point, Reidy," Thomas stood. "Please, I'm begging you." He looked down at the other man, his eyes dry, his heart pumping.

"Right," Reidy stood as well, leaned over. "Newsome's married, has been for over thirty years. Has a family. Not a surprise, of course, lots of fellows are, and do. But…whatever he does to afford those suits requires him to travel from his fine house in Derbyshire to London quite often, and he keeps a rather fine flat here in town for when he does. And there's always someone waiting there for him. He makes sure of it. And just like that wife of his in the back of beyond, he makes sure whomever his…friend…in the city is, it's a bloke who needs him. One who aims to please, who relies on not only his money, but –

"His approval," Thomas finished. Thinking of the story Francis had told him, that first morning together about his father, bloodied and beaten on the floor, the only way out of his childhood home alive. If a twenty-year-old Francis had crossed paths with Newsome, what would that look like? Thomas was witnessing the remnants of that now.

"You know about his father, then," Reidy nodded, seeming to approve of the fact.

"I do," Thomas nodded, his pulse slowing. "I'm going over there, Reidy. Not to cause trouble, mind. To help avoid it."

Reidy assessed him with light eyes, then smiled so suddenly it surprised him. "Yes, good idea. Shall I join you? Or…would you rather do this yourself?"

"The latter, if you're not offended?"

"Not in the least. Know I'm here, if you need the cavalry."

"I will. And I've a few questions I'm hoping you can answer, before I go…"

After getting the information, which Reidy readily supplied, Thomas crossed the room, composing himself. He thought of who he'd become this summer, not just as Francis' lover and friend, but to the other people in his life, his coworkers, who were, really, his friends, his _family_. Thought of Joe Molesley inviting them for weekly dinners. Phyllis' serene, happy face at the Vi and Hector's dinner, so pleased for him, his happiness. Clarke, exuberant and kind, bringing them all just _one more_ round of drinks in the Lion's snug. Andrew Parker, publicly acknowledging him, his help, at his wedding last weekend. Elsie Hughes teasing and warm, almost motherly, kissing his cheek. Thought of Charles Carson, after twenty years, telling him he was proud of the job he was doing, no matter that it wasn't the way he himself would do so.

He wasn't alone, not anymore. And neither was Francis.

"Hallo, there," he walked up to the pair of them, Jim Newsome and Francis, placed his left hand on Francis' shoulder, felt him relax. He stuck out his right one, forcing Newsome to drop his own from Francis' other shoulder. The man seemed startled into good manners. "Thomas Barrow. Good to meet you."

"James Newsome," the man shook, then dropped, his hand quickly. His own didn't return to Francis' shoulder, however. "Though I'm certain Frank's never mentioned me."

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Newsome. He's told me a great deal about you," Thomas answered easily, and Francis tensed. He turned his head towards him, smiled a little. Francis' face softened, his eyes warming a little, looking more like himself. "But you've a reputation, in any case, and I've friends from your part of the country. Derbyshire, am I right?"

He only had about half the information he really needed to put this man in his place, but he could guess at some of it, including the fact that his wife likely knew nothing of his life in London. Part of him hated to admit it, but he was enjoying himself, the anticipation of making this worm squirm.

"He is, in fact," Francis spoke, and though his voice was subdued, his easy humor was there, way underneath. Waiting. "Right, Jim?" Francis' hand reached up, took Thomas' hand off his should, slid his fingers through his. Squeezed. Thomas squeezed back. Jim Newsome's eyes watched, frustrated. The man said nothing.

"Your country home isn't too far from one of the estates, correct? Glenfield Place? I've had the pleasure of serving, from time to time, at Lord and Lady Peel's table. Fine family, finer staff,"

"You're in service, then?" Newsome wanted to sneer, but couldn't quite muster it. Thomas had off-put him. He knew, better than most, a bully didn't like to be in the dark.

"I am, and have been for over twenty-five years. It's extraordinary the number of people, both upstairs and down, you come to know, in many counties, in the course of that time. Influential people, both those with obvious influence, and others…well, I suppose it's best to put it this way – with unseen but valuable sway," he grinned, shrugged, hoping the man was nervous enough to back off from the paper tiger he'd created.

Because that was another thing about bullies: their hands were _always_ dirty, and they _always_ had people they didn't want to see the soiled parts of them. Always.

"You've a high opinion of yourself, then, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas shrugged, then nodded. "It can't be helped, Mr. Newsome."

And then: Francis laughed, really laughed, that wonderful, deep, raucous sound Thomas so adored, and whatever spell Newsome had over him broke. And all three of them felt it.

"Well, as fascinating as your work history is, Mr. Barrow, I do believe I'll be on my way. I've friends waiting, you see. Frank," he nodded to both of them, then moved towards the rooms beyond.

They stood there for a moment, watching him go. _Skulk, more like,_ Thomas thought gleefully.

Then Francis turned towards him, grinning with his whole face. "What just happened? What did you just do?"

"I wanted him to go away, you wanted him to go away," Thomas answered. "So I made him go away."

"Yes, I see that, you daft man, but _how?_ I was here, and I'm still not sure."

"I threatened him," Thomas laughed. It had been even easier than he thought.

"With what, exactly?"

"Exactly," Thomas answered, laughing harder. "It didn't matter, because a man like that, Francis…a man like that, he's used to being in control; he's not used to threats, certainly not from the likes of me. I simply said enough for him to _think_ I knew something I could use against him, and someone who could help me with it."

"So…so…that was just a load of bollocks, then?" Now Francis was laughing as well, and Thomas' heart soared.

"Mostly, yes."

"Thank you," Francis' voice became somber. "He's no good. I'm sure Reidy told you, and I've told myself so very many times over the years…he's no good. He's never been. It was hard to see that, before." He swiped his large hand across his eyes before anyone could see the tears shining there. He glanced across the room, where Reidy was waiting for them, a great smile splitting his long, handsome face. As they watched, the blond waiter stopped at their table, and Reidy whispered something in his ear. The lad nodded and hurried off.

"Ordering champagne, maybe?" Thomas mused.

"Likely. And since it's Reidy, that's probably not _all_ he said to him," Francis quipped, and they both laughed.

And then the words came, the ones that had been pressing against Thomas' lips the past few weeks, felt but not yet said, until now:

"I love you, Francis."

There they were. When had he last said those words, to anyone? He couldn't rightly remember. The floated in the air between them, waiting. Francis turned back towards him, wobbling as if he'd been struck. But his face was calm, and to Thomas' eyes, beautiful.

"Yes, Thomas," he replied, nodding. "Good. That's good. Because I love you, too, Thomas. I feel like I did nearly right away, that first night in the Lion. But I _know_ I do, now."

Thomas leaned over and kissed him gently, and they smiled at each other for a moment, oblivious to the crowd around them.

"Oi! Thomas! Frank! I can't drink this all myself!" Reidy, from across the room, holding up the champagne.

They both laughed, and went to join him. There was a lot to celebrate.


	32. By the Sea

**Chapter 32 – By the Sea**

 **A/N – You guys! I have been seriously MIA, I know. Lots of IRL stuff going on, but I am so glad to be back at it. This is the first of a handful of chapters about Chelsie's trip to Brighton. There's lots I want to fit in on the trip, so I've tried to split it up in a way that makes the most sense. Then it's back to Yorkshire for a bit, and then the summer's nearly over (both actually and in my fictional Yorkshire 1927). Thanks for sticking with this epic! I have and am so enjoying writing it! ~CeeCee**

She smiled, settled herself back into her seat, thinking of that day after Lady Rose's _debut_ , how she'd plotted and schemed and oh-so-gently guided Charlie to the casual beach outing that the staff had been craving after working so hard in the weeks leading up to the excursion. How he'd wanted it to be something infused with learning or merit, whilst not realizing a day of relaxation, complete and utter, was infused with its own life lessons.

Clearly, he'd learned something in the intervening years. She grinned again, and, again, leaned forward, looking out the window at the changing landscape, from city to country to seaside. After Tom Branson's wedding on Saturday he'd gone ahead of her a few days, as they'd originally discussed. He was rather vague as to the reasoning, but she supposed she could allow him a certain level of intrigue. It wasn't something of everyday life, and a bit of mystery, especially of the positive sort, kept one on her toes.

 _And Charlie does excel at pleasant surprises,_ she mused, pressing her fingers against the windowpane. She was contented to think that, since he'd proposed, most of life's surprises has been of the pleasanter sort, with a few exceptions, of course. And even with those bumps in the road, it was difficult to not feel rather contented these days.

As they pulled into the station, her heart beat quickly in her chest; silly, that, in some ways, but she couldn't help it. Nor was she sure she wanted to. It was rather lovely, the realization of this late-in-life love, a love she'd lived with, in some capacity, for so long; but one that hadn't, really, been able to unfurl until the past few years. She thought of Christmas pudding after a satisfying holiday meal and laughed out loud.

She stood and disembarked, glancing around her at the flowing streams of humanity, at the clusters of people waiting on the platform. She wasn't entirely sure why she was so giddy; perhaps, it was remembering back, to what felt like the beginning of all of this, though, of course, she and Charlie had been heading steadily towards this eventuality all along, now that she could look back and see it all clearly. But that day, standing in the surf in this very town, had been out of line, reckless, even, for them, that it had provided a sort of delayed momentum that had landed her here, on this train platform, counting herself among the vacationers and day-trippers.

A tall, familiar figure caught her eye, and she hurried towards her husband, forcing herself not to run. He spotted her as well, when she'd closed half the distance between them, and his face split into a nearly boyish grin, which made her laugh out loud. Clearly, she wasn't the only one infused with the holiday, late-summer atmosphere.

She reached him and grinned up. "Hello, Mr. Carson. Fancy meeting you here, in Brighton."

"Indeed, Mrs. Hughes, it's nearly as if it was planned," he leaned over and gave her a seemingly chaste kiss, something entirely appropriate for public consumption. However, his breath against her neck, the placement of his lips, just adjacent to the tender cup of her ear, sent delicious shivers through her limbs. She swayed, feeling slightly intoxicated with a sudden rush of lust.

He grasped her arm lightly. "Alright, Elsie?"

"Just a little…unsteady, my dear," she laughed up at him, grinning.

"Well, I guess you'd better hang on to me then," he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and they both chuckled as they made their way through the bustling station, to the sea town beyond.

oooOOOooo

She sighed, enjoying the way the sea breeze tugged at her hair, loosening the brown strands from their pins here and there, the way the sun warmed her bare head, the way the sand sifted through her toes. She leaned back in her chair contentedly. There was no longer a need to look ahead; she was exactly where she wanted to be. And she had Charlie to thank for, it of course; this trip had been an inspired idea.

"Quite a fine day, isn't it, Elsie?"

She turned her head to grin at the person next to her. "Indeed it is, Beryl." Charlie's plan had been _redolent_ with surprises thus far. "I wonder where the men have gotten off to?"

"Lordy, who knows? Mayhaps they'll return to with pockets full of cockles and seaweed for supper," Beryl retorted, and both of them giggled into their cupped hands, like schoolgirls.

Charlie had gone one step further than simply arranging a romantic outing for the pair of them, which he certainly had; after their warm reunion at the station yesterday afternoon, he'd led her to a lovely seaside boarding house, its white wooden frame weathered but beautiful, its wraparound veranda looking out onto the beach and the sea.

They'd spent more than a few minutes…unwinding…in the lovely two-room suite and then, as the afternoon had unspooled into the early evening, he'd suggested they find themselves some dinner. And that was when the first surprise of the trip was revealed: the Masons, too, were staying in this fine establishment, on a bit of delayed honeymoon of their own. Hence, here she was, less than twenty-four hours after her arrival, seated in large deck chairs wedged into the sand dunes behind their bed-and-breakfast, grinning devilishly at her friend.

"What say you, Beryl? You'd not be tempted to create a culinary masterpiece from the bits and bobs they straggle back with?" Elsie retorted, grinning at her friend.

"Not in a month of Sundays! I am here on vacation, on my belated _honeymoon_ even, and I plan to cook not one single whit for the next four days. The cook they've got in the inn up yonder seems to being doing well enough, and Al's promised me a meal at the hotel tomorrow night," Beryl grinned, her face softening as her words grazed over her husband's name. "When Mr. Carson first mentioned it to us, we thought he'd finally gone over the deep end, but we warmed to the idea. And I am certainly glad we did do."

Elsie really looked at her friend, who'd worked long, hard days that started before the sun was up most of her adult life. And who retired…to marry a farmer. _More early days, but I'm guess more interesting nights._ She smiled to herself, though the two of them had never directly discussed that side of either of their marriages, except for obliquely.

"As am I," she answered, reached out, and squeezed Beryl's hand. She'd not thought of this trip to the sea, nor of its details. And she'd not thought Charlie would have extended the invitation to the Masons, assuming he'd want it to be the two of them solely. But they could enjoy plenty of private moments throughout the day as well as enjoy their friends' company. "I'd never have thought to invite you and Mr. Mason, I'm ashamed to admit it."

"Nor why should you? Me and Albert, we're the party crashers," Beryl grinned over at her, gave her hand an answering squeeze. "Tis good, you know, to do this. And who'd have thought? Me, seaside, waiting for my husband to return, so we could all return to our lovely bed-and-breakfast! Life's funny sometimes. Funny, odd…and rather grand, don't you think?"

"I'll say yes to the lot, Beryl," Elsie thought. She could see the men heading back towards them now, in the distance, walking along the shoreline. One slight, one tall, their hair blowing in the breeze, their cuffed trousers and shirts fluttering like ships sails. These two men, their two men, farmer and retired butler, and odd but touching pair, somehow.

"Ah, there they are," Beryl had spotted them too. "Al's half the size o' Mr. Carson, rather easy to pick them out, don't you think?" Her voice softened and stretched again as she spoke of her husband.

"You sound rather contented, if I might say so, Mrs. Mason," Elsie teased, but very gently.

"Yes, indeed I am, Mrs. Carson," Beryl glanced over at her, and her smile was gone, but her face was relaxed. "Twasn't how I thought things were going to end, you see? What a lovely surprise he's been, my Albert."

"It's not over yet, you know," Elsie answered, but she looked at her friend warmly.

"Nay, it isn't, and thanks to Mr. Carson, I've got a lovely seat seaside," Beryl answered, and swiped at the tears that had appeared on her face. Elsie brushed her own cheeks dry. "This time, I should say, as I know last time I was on this beach it was all your doing, Elsie."

"Don't blame me, Beryl," she shook her head, eyes twinkling, as the men headed up the dunes towards them. "I wanted to see the Crystal Palace."

They both started laughing, the sound of their mirth mixing with their husbands' greetings and the calls of the seabirds.


	33. Reaching Branches

**Chapter 33 – Reaching Branches**

 **A/N: Guys! I have left this languishing WAY too long, but I am back and focused and ready to wrap this summer story up. I think there's about 4-5 chapters left, then it's on to other stories of Chelsie and Richobel and maybe others. I've been strongly considering a WWII-era fic featuring the DA littles (both the canon ones and the ones I've created), so we shall see.**

 **NB: The references to Charlie's trip to Scotland and Grigg's death hark back to a few chapters in my story "Night Moments". My Chelsie world is thickly woven with cross-references, ahahhaaha.**

 **~CeeCee**

She stood on the small balcony, the sea breeze pulling her nightdress around her ankles, tug at her hair like a playful lover. The sun swam on the horizon, sinking into a pool of oranges and purples as it disappeared for the day. The happy chatter of the tourists strolling below, to dinner or home or to watch the sunset closer to the water, floated upwards to her, colorful feathers on the wind.

The Masons were among the pedestrians below, somewhere, heading towards their extravagant hotel dining room meal. Elsie hoped it would be a memorable experience for them. She smiled a little, thinking of the simple, half-finished meal at the little table behind her in the bedroom. The Carsons had opted for a different sort of evening.

The spicy, clean, well-loved smell of her husband reached her before he did; he joined her, pulling her towards him, leaving one large, warm hand around her waist. She leaned into him, rubbing her face against his robe, sniffing deeply.

"You're not disappointed that we stayed in this evening, then?" His question broke the easy silence between them.

"Do I look disappointed, my dear?"

"I'd say not," he grinned down at her, raising an eyebrow. "But I wouldn't want discover I'd shirked my duties as a holiday planner after the fact."

"I'm glad the Masons are out for their fancy meal, Charlie, they've certainly earned and deserve it. But I'm enjoying where I am too much to be bothered by a lavish dinner," she rubbed her cheek, once again, against the soft fabric of his dressing gown.

"And you're not upset I invited them?"

"Nae, not in the least, it's grand having them here," she answered honestly, then continued carefully, lest she hurt his feelings, or sound ungrateful for this lovely getaway. "However, I am _surprised_ you did."

"Are you?" His face was soft and thoughtful. "I suppose you are." He turned her fully towards him, engulfing her with both arms now. The sun was still glowing on the horizon, like a flame-colored gem. The surf crashed below them, a steady, soothing thudding, like the beat of his heart through his pajama top. She could feel him getting ready to speak, to say something important. She waited. She had time. _They_ had time. At long last, and my, wasn't it glorious?

"I invited them…I invited them because they are our friends," he said. It was so simple, so true, but still, she waited. Because there was more here, she knew. He would tell her, in his time, as the waves rolled beneath them.

"That they are, good friends, to be completely," she murmured. And they were both silent for a few moments, his hand stroking her hair.

"I've…I've not had many friends in my life, at least, not for a very large portion of it," he finally said, and her heart jolted in her chest.

"That's not true, Charlie, and you know it, you ninny," she looked up at him, consternated, feeling the frown crease her face.

"I'm no ninny, Elsie; and I'm not self-pitying, really, I'm not. It's simply the truth. And it's a truth that was primarily crafted by myself, so if there's regret at all on that front, it would be mine to reckon with," he shook his head, and she examined it closely. A rueful grin pulled at his face, and he brushed his fingers gently against her cheek. She leaned into it.

"You, Elsie Carson, were my greatest friend for most of my life, as much as I allowed you to be, which sometimes, we can both admit, wasn't always very much, or very easy," his smile widened, but it was still a little sad. "Oh, when I was a lad, I had a whole mess of friends, great friends, exactly the kind you want when you're young and foolish and full of fire. And then…and then, for a while, I had Charlie Grigg, and Alice, and the rest of the crowd at the theater, backstage and front."

"And then…and then, two of your greatest friends broke your heart," she whispered, nodding.

"Not broken, no, though it felt like it. I am standing here, with you, as proof, that my heart is fully mended, and that you've been working on repairs thereto for years, decades maybe," he leaned of, kissed her briefly. She pulled him back down by the collar of his dressing gown and kissed him again, more completely.

She looked up at him, searching his face, trying to think of the right words. "I'm not your only friend, though, Mr. Carson." She teased a little, trying to coax some of the earnestness out of his expression. "Even if I am your grandest."

"But you were, for a very long time!" He exclaimed so passionately she nearly yelped, but she checked herself. He'd thought on this, many times, it seemed, and now he'd have out with it, one way or the other. "And before you interject, I _realize_ it's not due to some innate disagreeableness on my part, or that I don't enjoy familiarity with _anyone_ of my acquaintance. It's simply that…life, or rather my view of life in a big house. The hierarchy of it. The _necessity_ of that hierarchy." He paused, cupped her face in both hands.

She closed her eyes, thinking. Felt his palms, one still, one vibrating minutely, as it always did, these days. Pictured the nearly-finished project she and Phyllis Moseley had been working on, nearly all summer. Thought of all the people who loved this man, _her_ man. How could he blithely state he has few friends?

"Maybe, Charlie, maybe it was necessary," she opened her eyes at last. "But you cannot think there aren't dozens and dozens of people, upstairs and down at Downton, in the village, and beyond, who love you, cherish you. Because there are."

"You may be right, Elsie. I know I've played father figure and teacher and mentor and the like to some, even many, perhaps…but true friends, equals…those relationships have evaded me, somehow. I realized that after I came back from Grigg's funeral last year, saw how many friends the man acquired in the short time he'd been in Scotland," he shook his head. She saw the smile flit on and off his face.

"I never had the knack that you did, Elsie, of infusing leadership with moments of camaraderie. Now you, you are a prime example of someone who can make friends anywhere, with anyone, if you've a mind to," he grinned down at her. "Even when you oughtn't."

"You managed to make that sound rather _risqué_ , Mr. Carson," she laughed, and so did he, at last. "But I understand ye, at last, Charlie, I do. Though you must realize, Beryl was _always_ your friend, even as she was mine, though you mayn't have noticed for a while."

"You're right, of course," he shrugged, in a rather casual way, for him. She found it rather appealing. "But I do now, and I'm glad of it. Friends are important, I think, especially as we get older, and especially those who knew us when we were younger."

"I couldn't agree more," she now, in turn, stroked his cheek. "Now, if you don't mind, Mr. Carson, let's make this night in count for something, aye? I've a few particularly friendly ideas in mind…"


	34. Of Pillows & Nightingales

**Chapter 34 – Of Pillows & Nightingales**

 **A/N: Hello, dear readers. It's been too, too long between chapters recently. I've been working on my novel and other projects (and received many rejection letters in the meantime) but certainly have not forgotten this sweet fic of mine! An end-of-summer late-night check-in with all of our lovely pairings…**

 **~CeeCee**

Elsie was roused from dreams by the slapping of the rain against the windowpanes, of the crash rather than murmur of the surf beyond them. She half-sat, blinking in the dark blue of night, momentarily disoriented.

Then she remembered: _Brighton. The sea. A little getaway._

She certainly wasn't at home, in their tidy cottage; no, this was a different Elsie Hughes. Her hair waved loosely around her shoulders, her body was completely unclothed underneath the smooth, body-warmed sheets that encased her.

"Alright?" Charlie rumbled, along with the surf, beside her. A giant, hot paw of a hand encircled the soft, yielding skin at her waist.

"Aye," she breathed, and placed her own hand atop his. "The rain woke me. Or mayhaps, it was my dreams that did."

"Nightmares?" He asked, and though he didn't sit up, his voice was clearer, more alert. She'd been plagued with them for weeks after Becky had died, waking, gasping for breath, nearly every other night for over a month, back in the cold, dead gray of winter.

"Nae, nothing worrisome," she rubbed her thumb against the ridges of his knuckles. "Just the usual crazed jumble my head comes up with, once I close my eyes for the night."

"Good," he replied, pulling her down towards his own warm unadorned self, running his hand through her hair. "Wouldn't want you tired for the journey home tomorrow."

"It went quickly, Charlie, our little respite by the sea," she sighed, tucking herself familiarly into the corners and crevices of his much larger body. "I thank you, my dear, for planning it, and for inviting the Masons, especially."

She'd been worried that sharing their time off with the other couple would prove intrusive and potentially regretful, despite her affection for them, but the truth was the opposite: each pair had gone off (or stayed in, as the mood struck) independently as they saw fit, and came together for camaraderie and socializing in a way that Elsie knew she'd miss, the ease and spontaneity of it.

"We'll have to make a habit of it, I think," Charlie mused, and now his hand was moving along the side of her body, from breast to hip, in such a way that conversation seemed almost an afterthought.

"Indeed, Mr. Carson, among other things," she pressed her nose into the nook that was created by his chin and shoulder, breathed in the sleepy smell of him. "But, alas, it's back to real life for us on the morrow."

"And the family is returning the day after?" His hand stopped, momentarily, on her upper thigh.

"Yes, they're celebrating Master George's birthday in London, so that his cousins can be with him," she sighed, her heart heavy. The poor sweet lad had yet to connect his father's death with his own day of celebration, but he would, eventually, and likely soon. She certainly hoped Mary Talbot was ready to face the day her son came to that realization.

"I don't know how she does it, Elsie," he answered, his heart full of warmth and sadness. She didn't respond. She respected Mary, maybe, sometimes, even liked her a little; but she'd never love or admire the lady the way that her husband did.

"She does it, Charlie, for her son, and for the love of him, and that of his father," she rested her head against his bare chest, letting the curly hairs there tickle her nose. Sometimes, being married was a simple delight. This was one of those times. She was sad for George Crawley, for his mother, for the life of Matthew Crawley, cut terribly short. But yet, she was terrible contented, right where she was.

"Is that why Lady Isobel stayed behind?" Charlie asked. Knowing, somehow, she knew something.

"In part, I believe," she spoke carefully. Sometimes, as well as she knew him, and as much as he'd expanded his horizons these past few years, she was never sure how he'd respond to anything or anyone that flew in the face of propriety. "I also believe…she stayed behind to spend time…with…with her new fiancé."

"What?" It was a bark, but without much bite. If he was surprised, it seemed primarily for form's sake.

"Don't play that game with me, Charles Carson. You have eyes and ears, just as the rest of us do," she laughed, kissed his chin.

"I suppose I do, and you've been hinting heavily at something afoot. If pressed, I expect I would say I am not surprised of the particulars I am thinking of, but rather the swiftness of their execution. You _did_ mention that you knew of another upcoming wedding, and I am assuming…"

"You assume correctly, then, my dear. As for the timing, when is ever the right time, for so many of the most important decisions of life? Did _you_ marry _me_ , at the exact time you wished to, Charlie?" She teased, peppering his torso with tiny kisses.

"Only a decade or so after, I think, Elsie," he grumbled, then laughed, grabbing her tightly, pressing his warm mouth against her, as the cold rain slapped against the windowpane.

oooOOOooo

It was all entirely improper. And Isobel didn't care one single whit.

They had left the cozy, boisterous rumble of the Lion, which she now viewed as their finest refuge, very late indeed. If her staff wasn't talking yet, they would be, after this week. Lady Isobel Grey had departed Crawley House escorted by Dr. Richard Clarkson, or, more scandalously, unescorted by anyone, no fewer than four times in the past week, since the day they'd help the Lewises with their new arrival.

And now, approaching midnight on a late summer's evening, she and the good doctor were wandering the lanes that connected the estate and the village, guided only by their drink-muddled wits and sense of mischief.

Richard's fingers were laced through hers, and they both walked on the graveled path with loose, easy gates. _Everything_ felt loose, to her. Unstrained. She knew, in the very center of her, that anything that happened, or would happen, between them, would be a choice that she would make, not have thrust upon her, by anyone or anything. Why hadn't she realized the value of that before?

"I am surprised you agreed to walk this far afield with me, Isobel," he finally spoke, his voice soft and private.

"Are you? I may have been, myself, at the beginning of the summer. But I'm not shocked by my own behavior, not any longer. What say you to that, Richard?" She stopped, tilted her head back, gazed at the stars. There were so very many of them, scattered across the dark night sky. As she watched, one seemed to wink at her.

"What changed, do you think?" He asked, and that was the best thing about Richard; if she told him the truth, even if it was "I don't know", he'd accept it. He was no pushover, not by a longshot, but he accepted her, as she was.

"I think…" she trailed off, _actually_ thinking. Then she grinned hugely and caught his eye. "You'll not believe this, but I just stopped…being so contrary. Intentionally, I mean, for its own sake."

"I can concede that, as long as we're not confusing contrariness with being opinionated. Sometimes overly so," he replied, but he was laughing, and his gaze was soft.

She smiled, but continued in earnest. She'd never really considered these things, but now they were scattered across her mind, like the stars in the sky above.

"Coming here, all those years ago, to Downton. I started off with a chip on my shoulder, you see, and so did Matthew, perhaps, even more so than I," she shook her head. "But then…then he adapted. Rather quickly, now that I think back on it. It was, of course, falling in love with Mary that accounted for most of it, but it was also…" She stopped, swallowing back the tears that threatened. Tomorrow was George's birthday, the anniversary of her son's death.

"You are not required to speak of these things, Isobel. Not tonight, especially, or ever, if you don't wish to," he squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

"No, no, it's alright," she swiped at the tears on her cheeks. "Matthew adapted, I think, not only because he fell for Mary, but because he loved having a father of sorts, again." It had been difficult for her, at times, to see the growing affection and admiration between Robert Crawley and her son, but, in the end, she was glad of it.

"I am sure he thought of Reginald frequently, Isobel."

"Oh, I agree. But…once he tackled his initial resistance, he embraced his role as heir, as a gentleman. I…somehow…never quite found mine. Not entirely. So…sometimes I made decisions…not only because I believed in them, but to shock or irritate or placate others. Then, this summer, Richard. It was you, yes, after all this time, it was you who taught me a thing or two," she turned towards him, and wasn't even trying to staunch the flow of tears rolling down her face.

He handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her cheeks, blew her nose in a decidedly unladylike fashion. He waited, his eyes warm and calm, just the slightest twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth at her loud expulsion.

"Your visits to Matthew's grave, Richard. Once I found out about them from Elsie Hughes, something changed for me…you taught me, without knowing it, that the best thing we can do is be true to ourselves, regardless of how it may seem to others. It…it also made me understand. The nature of…of your affection for me," she stopped. She'd likely said too much already.

"Affection? Love, you mean, Isobel. Deep and abiding, for the woman you are, underneath all of the contrariness and opinions and the rest of it," he replied, and now he was laughing. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and pressed his warm lips against her own damp ones, with only the stars as witnesses.

oooOOOooo

Thomas bent over his ledgers, finalizing the amounts after the week-and-a-half of revelry at Grantham House. All of the festivities would culminate tomorrow with Master George's birthday – which reminded him; he needed to wrap up the gift he procured for the lad earlier today.

He grinned a little to himself and looked up at the clock. After midnight, but he couldn't begrudge the late hour. This excursion to London had been filled with busyness and work, yes, but he'd also enjoyed himself more than he'd ever had when returning to the city in the past.

There was a knock at the door and he called for whomever it was to come in. Mrs. Powell, perhaps, with updates as to the birthday cake and menu. But it was Phyllis Molesley.

"Mr. Molesley and I are leaving for the evening, Mr. Barrow," she grinned at him, her face reflecting his own feelings; she was tired, that was clear, but radiated contentment.

"You're both here rather late, Mrs. Molesley," he answered, his forehead wrinkling.

"Time got away from me, I'm afraid. I was making a simple repair to one of Lady Cora's dresses, then pulled out a project I am working on for Mrs. Hughes. It's nearly finished, and I got over-excited about coming to the end of it, and showing it to her," she grinned again, and he smiled back, wondering, as he often did, why he resisted the friendship of this almost-sister for so long.

"Mrs. Hughes is always up to something, I think," he answered, hoping the older woman and Downton's former butler were enjoying their time in Brighton. He'd missed her, he could admit to himself, the past few days. He'd be glad to see her back at Downton at the end of the week.

"Yes, it seems so, much to everyone's benefit," Phyllis laughed. There were footsteps in the hall behind her, and they both looked towards the approaching sound. Joe and Francis stood there, grinning at them.

"I've let a wandering merchant in the servants' entrance, Mr. Barrow. I hope he doesn't cause too much trouble," Joe quipped. "Birdy, shall we? We've got a busy day tomorrow. Might I escort you to our lodgings, my lady?" He swept her a grand bow and they all said their goodnights.

"I hope you don't mind me here. I was on my way back from a late dinner, and I'm leaving tomorrow," Francis stood, framed by the doorway.

"Not in the least, Mr. Holmes," he rubbed his eyes, closed the ledgers. They could wait until the morning. He was nearly through, in any case, and it was late. He stood, brushing past Francis, sending tendrils of sparks through his body, to shut the office door. And lock it. If Mrs. Powell wanted to show him the cake, she could do so tomorrow as well. He turned back towards the other man.

"I'm glad you came," he said simply. Since Elsie Hughes had left for her seaside jaunt, he'd had to hold down the fort at the house. He'd seen Francis for lunch a few days ago, but they'd not spent much time together this week, compared to last. "I missed you."

Francis' huge grin split his face, and he engulfed Thomas in his arms, running a hand along his cheek, slightly rough with end-of-day stubble.

"Is this allowed, Mr. Barrow? Terribly scruffy for a butler, I'm afraid," he teased, then kissed him. Thomas sighed, relaxing for the first time all day.

"The rules are slightly relaxed once the family retires for the evening," he retorted once he pulled away. He walked back to his desk, pulled two glasses from his sideboard. He didn't have any whisky, but he poured them each a glass of red wine. "Now, I've one last bit of official business, then we can visit for a bit, though I cannot promise I won't fall asleep across the desk on you, Mr. Holmes."

He smiled at Francis, then rummaged around in his desk draw. Pulled out a small skein of ribbon, a piece of paper, blue stars on a green background, and a small box, placed them on the desk between them.

"What's this, then?" Francis smiled down, a bit puzzled. "Official business, you say?"

"It's Master George's birthday tomorrow," Thomas responded, and suddenly, he felt shy. Funny that. The man across from him had kissed his scars, knew the worst of his past actions. Why did this, then, feel so personal? So naked?

"A birthday gift? For the next Earl of Grantham?" Francis teased, but then looked lingeringly at Thomas. His face softened. "How old is the boy?"

"Six, tomorrow," Thomas sighed. "It's also the anniversary of his father's death. Matthew Crawley died hours after his son was born. Car crash." Matthew Crawley had been alright, more than alright, actually. Thomas had liked the man. And had been thoroughly intrigued by the changes he'd brought about in Lady Mary. He glanced over at Francis. Now he understood those changes, a little better.

"That's terrible," Francis replied. "Poor lad. Never thought I'd say that about the heir to an earldom, but life's funny sometimes, isn't it?" He grabbed Thomas' hand, smiled at him for a long moment. "What's in the box?"

"Well, Master George has been enjoying his riding lessons immensely, but, particularly, spending time with his pony, Victory," Thomas answered, and he could hear the enthusiasm creeping into his voice. George Crawley was a lovely kid. Miss Sybbie, too. He'd never experienced such uncomplicated, unwavering affection from anyone like he did with the children of the house.

But maybe that was changing, expanding…he glanced over again at Francis, who was still smiling, and opened the box. Took out a small replica of a horse, mostly black with a starburst of white on its forehead.

"Am I right to assume that this is a small Victory?" Francis' laughter bubbled up as picked the miniature up. It was finely detailed, hand-painted to look just like the beloved pony.

"You couldn't help yourself, could you?" Thomas answered, but he was laughing too.

"Not when you literally handed me that one, no," Francis responded, his eyes still twinkling. His face grew serious as he placed the horse on the desk. "Life's been full of a series of small victories this summer, it seems."

"And one or two grand ones, if I estimate correctly," Thomas answered, leaned over and kissed him. Victory on the table, between them.


	35. Part of the Whole

**Chapter 35 – Part of the Whole**

 **A/N: Life is busy, but this took me too long, this penultimate chapter of this summer tale.**

 **I was recently reminded of how important this fandom is to me, and how it kept me afloat during a very tough time in my life. How it reminded me how much I love writing and sharing stories with people. And, most invaluably, the friends I have made because of it.**

 **Elsie's gift to Charlie, the labor of Phyllis' clever fingers, is revealed here. I hope you enjoy it as much as I think the recipient would.**

 **Thanks, all of you. You are simply the best.**

 **Xoxo, CeeCee**

Phyllis stood, stretched. Opened her palms wide, then closed them again, flexing the overworked muscles in her fingers. She sighed, twisting at the waist, then grinned down with deep satisfaction at the at-last-completed project she'd been working on all summer for Elsie Carson.

 _Well done, you. That's it, then,_ she thought, her smile growing even bigger. And then she surprised herself by bursting into tears, the tapestry below her shimmering into a smear of colors as they fell. She stepped back to make sure the precious work didn't get wet.

"What in heaven's name…Mrs. Molesley, are you quite alright?"

Phyllis heaved a watery gasp and turned from her worktable. Elsie Carson herself was standing in the doorway, a perplexed but concerned look on her face. She had been expecting Downton's housekeeper any minute, and had told the woman to let herself in, as Joe was at the school, readying his classroom for students. The project had been finished, really finished, yesterday, but she'd kept finding one more thing, one stray thread, one imaginary flaw to "mend." But now, that was that. It was ridiculous, of course, but she would miss it, this beautiful thing she had created, bent over, strained her eyes, and cramped her fingers and hummed over all summer, and now, that was it.

Elsie Carson was here to claim it, to take it home.

"Don't mind me, please, Mrs. Carson, I've gone all sentimental again. I can't seem to help myself since I've gotten married," she shrugged, swiped at her eyes, then reached for a handkerchief in her pocket. She patted her cheeks more carefully and squared her shoulders.

"It's all through, unless there's something you'd like to change," she gestured to the desk, and the older woman's gaze moved away from hers and landed on the finished work.

"Oh! Mrs. Molesley! I…." Elsie's voice trailed off, and she moved closer. She reached out one gloved hand, then pulled it back before her fingertips could brush against the fabric. "May I?"

The laughter bubbled up her throat and suddenly Phyllis felt like herself again. She would miss the lovely thing, to be certain; but she could always start on one of her own, couldn't she? "It's _yours_ , Mrs. Carson, to do as you please. By all means!"

Elsie hitched a sigh, and Phyllis was startled to tears shining in the other woman's eyes, to see her throat working with emotion. "Oh, it's not just mine, Mrs. Molesley, and I don't mean because it's a gift for Mr. Carson. This…this is a wee bit off history, or not so wee, actually, and I believe it belongs to many people." She laughed, then brushed her fingers over the piece, landing on certain spots here and there, as they caught her attention.

"And most certainly _you,_ Mrs. Molesley," Elsie turned to her, and held her gaze. "How could I not think of you, at least a little, every time I look at this work of art?" And she did something that Phyllis would never have expected, not in the moment: she embraced her, warmly and completely.

"It was a pleasure, Mrs. Carson," Phyllis pushed the words past the lump in her throat. "In fact…in fact, you've inspired me; I believe I'll be working on one of my own, if I've the time and materials." "

"Well, in that respect, Mrs. Molesley, I will help as much as I can." Elsie gave her arm a squeeze.

"Are you giving this to Mr. Carson for any particular occasion?"

"Nae, and I've not the patience to save it for the holidays, not even close! I'll be lucky I don't wave this gorgeous thing in his face the moment I arrive home, Mrs. Molesley. I…I suppose I was inspired by a research project he was working on, a fun bit of history that had caught his eye. And it made me think of what our lives are made up of…the things that are constant, and the things that change, as we grow," she grinned broadly down at the tapestry.

"Oh! That reminds me; I made one addition just this week, when we returned from London. It just…just felt like the right thing to do, considering…well, I hope it's alright with you," she leaned over and pointed at the place she meant.

"I feel like I recognize that pattern…" Elsie trailed off. "It's quite stylish, no?" Then understanding dawned on her face. "That looks like a pocket square I've seen Mr. Holmes wear." Elsie Carson raised her eyebrow and grinned at her.

Phyllis giggled; she couldn't help it. "Yes, it is! He left it here a few weeks ago, he and Thomas have dinner with Joe and I a few times a month, and we, them. I hope he doesn't go missing it. I suppose I best tell him where part of it ended up. I dare say he shan't mind, not too much."

"Nae, Mrs. Molesley," Elsie was laughing, and crying a little, again. "Nae, I dare say he won't mind. He belongs exactly where you put him, and now, like or not, he's part of something bigger. We all are." She brushed her fingers across the fabric again.

Phyllis did the same. "We are, aren't we?"

And Elsie lay her hand atop hers, on top of the story the fabric beneath them both told.

oooOOOooo

Elsie walked into the cottage, the gorgeous, precious gift wrapped carefully in brown paper, tied with string and stored in a travel bag from the Molesleys.

"You're a bit late, then!" Charlie called from the sitting room, but he didn't sound as if he minded much. She could hear the tinny strains of the Victrola, something with light, dripping voices. Holst, maybe, or Berlioz. She grinned.

"I've a surprise for you, Mr. Carson, so you best be nice to me," she replied, shedding her jacket and hat, walking towards the cozy room. Her heart sighed with contentment. There he was, bent over the small round side table, organizing the photos of the staff, through the years, that he'd brought home earlier this summer. He glanced up at her, grinning.

"Well, ye've finally begun, after all these weeks," she teased. The bag with its precious cargo tugging at her fingertips. She set it down. "How have you decided to sort them, then?"

"I thought at first, the logical approach would be chronologically, of course. And, if not exactly that, then by who was Earl at the time, or by the royal family…but it didn't make much sense. So I organized it by the people in the photos," he shrugged, glancing up at her as the harp rolled out of the record player.

"Very sound choice, I think, Charlie," she came over, kissed his warm forehead, smelled the pomade in his hair. She glanced down at his work. He'd done as he said, without much regard for chronology, which made her smile. There was something more instinctive going on here: one of a very young Charlie, with several other footmen and grooms, standing aside horses ready for the hunt; below it, a close up, clearly a few years later, of one of the grooms with his hand on a horse's nose, then one of Mary Talbot, no more than ten or eleven, side-saddle and staring straight at the camera. Robert Crawley grinned up at her, as did the same groom, now well into middle age.

"Ye're telling a story, then, Charlie," she bent, took her gift from the bag. "And I've a story for you, too, love."

"What's all this?" His forehead wrinkled.

She set aside the photo album and unfolded the fabric, setting it before him. "A gift. Thought of by me, crafted, mostly, by Mrs. Molesley over the summer. Aided by a small amount of research, some scavenging, and lots of love, Charlie. Mostly love, I think."

"A family tree, Elsie?" He gazed down at the work Phyllis had done, then up at her. "But not like any family tree I've ever seen…" he trailed off, he fingers gently tracing the centerpiece of the work, the large, embroidered trunk of an ash tree, with their names running up the center of it, the threads of the letters twined together and disappearing into hundreds of fabric leaves, the ones Elsie had been cutting out all summer.

The fabric of the leaves were all colors and textures: cut from old liveries, and maid's caps, and uniforms, and ladies' discarded dresses and forgotten ties and tweed vests and, yes, lost pocket squares.

"It's our lives, Charlie. Our past, our families, by blood and by bond. See, up the center, the Carsons and the Hugheses, as far back as memory and my lady historian could find for me. That was Becky's," she brushed her finger over a leave made from a piece of cotton dotted with tiny blue flowers, with the word 'Rebecca' sewn onto it.

"But…but…Elsie," he finally spoke. It was a soft sound. "Grigg is here," he pressed on a brown checked leaf, part of a tiny branch on its own.

"Aye," she whispered. "And so are the Crawleys…see?" She gestured to another large branch, with smaller ones webbing outward. The leaves were mostly satins and velvet, silk or satin. Charlie's large fingers landed on a dark red satin with 'Lady Mary Talbot' stitched into it, a leaf beside it, dark blue serge, cut from a sailor outfit of Master George…

She pulled up a chair and sat beside him, as he discovered and touched each of the branches, and leaves peppering them, made of every fabric a milliner could imagine. Small branches for the Molesleys, twining with Thomas', where Francis' bright leaf hung. Another for the Bates', with a new leaf added for the yet-to-be-born younger sibling of Will Bates. A branch for the Masons, Beryl and Albert woven together, two overlapping leaves for William, one from his livery, one from the army uniform he wore so bravely, so proudly. Daisy and Andy's leaves, on an offshoot branch of their own, with room for more as little ones came…

Many of the leaves bore no names; but stood for those that had touched their lives in smaller way or were pieces of fabric that represented their past selves. Elsie waited, content to watch him examine and discover it all. Or as much as he could, in one setting.

He finally spoke. His head was so close to the fabric his face was partially hidden. He finally straightened up a little, looked at her for a very long time.

"It's certainly not properly done, Elsie," he said at last.

"Nae, it isn't, Charlie," she shook her head, placed her hand back on his. "Not even close. It's a bit haphazard, it's a bit wild, a bit imperfect –"

"Funny, you saying that. I was just thinking that, it's not properly done at all. But it's _perfectly_ done, in any case," he reached up her hand to stroke her cheek.

"Perfectly imperfect, like life. Like _our_ life, together, Charlie, wouldn't you say?"

"I would indeed, Elsie. I would indeed."


	36. The Changing Seasons

**Chapter 36 – The Changing Seasons**

 **A/N: I've had the ending for this story floating around in my head for the past month or so but have been putting it off, not solely because RL is craaazzzy busy, but because I am going to miss writing this tale. It's funny – I started my DA fanfic journey with my Chelsie epic, A History of Moments, last summer, and posted the last chapter of THAT fic almost a year ago this week.**

 **When I first started writing AHoM last spring, I had no idea how much, how VERY much, it would enrich me, in so many ways. Life's funny sometimes, isn't? The stories, the fandom, the FRIENDS I've come to know through this medium.**

 **Unbelievable. Awesome, in the truest sense of the word.**

 **This has been a great reminder that little things can be big things, great things. So, this chapter is dedicated to chelsietx, who was my very first reviewer on the very first chapter of AHoM. From one chapter and one review to something that brings such contentment to my day, in so many ways. **

**Thanks, chelsietx, for that first word of encouragement, and thank you ALL for reading and sharing this journey with me.**

 **Xoxo, CeeCee**

As the four of them left the little courthouse, a gust of wind nearly lifted the ladies' hats off. She and the freshly minted Mrs. Clarkson both clapped their hands atop them simultaneously, then started giggling. The just-married couple exuded as much happiness and contentment as any of the other pairs she'd seen wed this summer, and that joy was contagious.

"I believe autumn has arrived in Yorkshire, ladies," Charlie intoned. He had been a surprise guest at the little ceremony that had just made Lady Isobel Grey into a doctor's wife, again, for good.

"You maybe right, Mr. Carson, but I don't mind," Isobel grinned at him, then squeezed Richard's arm. "It's a rather lovely day, is it not?" She smiled at the other three, then shifted her gaze to the bustling, late-afternoon pedestrians crossing the village square, the branches of the trees swinging and swooping wildly in the wind, still filled with dark green leaves, so soon to turn, and fall, and scatter. But not yet, not today.

"I cannot imagine a lovelier one, to be honest," Richard Clarkson interjected, gazing over at his new wife and Elsie took that moment to look closely at her fellow countryman. The doctor had always been a pleasant, solid sort of person, exactly the type you want sorting out all of the things that could go wrong with a body. He'd been a steadfast figure in the village and at the grand house for so long, it was almost easy to overlook his presence.

But not any longer; the man was so clearly overjoyed by the day and his new bride and how his life, at least, had seemed to settle exactly where he'd wanted it to. _Love transforms us, it does._ She'd thought it, or something like it, many times this summer. She was surer and surer of it each time.

"Mr. Carson, I must thank you for standing up with me, and on such short notice," Richard began as they crossed the square. His friend Peter, another doctor at the hospital, had been waylaid, as doctors often were. He was going to meet them for an early supper, though, at the -

"It was my pleasure, Dr. Clarkson," Charlies smiled, cleared his throat, "And, I must admit, I've a bit of curiosity about this new establishment, The Red Lion. I'm glad to hear their serving supper now, of a sorts, so I can satisfy it."

"Ye'd not care to join me at a lock-in, then, Charlie? After-hour cocktails in the wee snug in the back?" Elsie rejoined, and Isobel started giggling with her. She couldn't help it. Charlie raised his eyebrow at her, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Hardly," her husband responded, his mouth twitching with repressed mirth. "Though, I suppose if I change my mind, Elsie, I'll advise you of the same, as you seem rather well versed in the place."

"Nae, Charlie, I'm only scandalous enough in my thoughts to be mildly entertaining," she squeezed his arm as the two couples headed up the hill towards the waiting, red door. "There are no _real_ skeletons in my closet, I'm afraid."

She caught Isobel' eye again, and the pair of them did their best not to burst into laughter.

oooOOOooo

Jenny was delighted to see them. She greeted Isobel and Richard with kisses on each cheek, leading them to their usual corner, though there was a slight difference she noticed right away.

The tall barkeep had set a long table for their small party that nearly took up the entire nook, insisting that they have room to spread out, and given the early hour, there'd be no rush for them to leave. There was a tall vase of end-of-summer wildflowers gracing the table, along with bottles of wine waiting to be poured.

Impulsively, Isobel turned toward Jenny and handed her the small posy of flowers Richard had presented her with earlier today. Her new husband grinned at her as she did.

"For me?" Jenny's eyebrows went up, then grinned at the pair of them as the Carsons got settled behind them. "Izzy, I'm not sure the likes of me will ever get married, so…"

"Well, that's the traditional interpretation, but times change, don't they, Jenny? Let's rather say they'll give you good luck, in love, if and when you're interested in finding it," Isobel finished up.

The younger woman beamed, then laughed, and hurried off to get their drinks.

"Izzy's Choice," Richard spoke up next to her. She turned to him, aware of the close proximity of the Carsons, but remembering where they were. _The Lion._ _Their place. A place that takes you as you are, in the moment. And right now, I am a blushing bride._ She stepped closer to him, kissed him briefly on his mouth, thought of the evening ahead.

"Yes, you are, most definitely, Dr. Clarkson," she said, her voice teasing, but warm underneath. "At last, but completely."

"Better late than never, I say," he answered, grinning. Then his face turned serious. "Are you worried, at all, in any way, Isobel?" Did she regret him, this decision. That's what he meant.

"No, I am certainly not. Do I have all of the answers, Richard? I think I am finally aware enough to say, again, certainly not. I _do_ know a few things though, a precious few: that I love you, and I must have done for a long time, because it doesn't seem like a new feeling to me. And I will go on loving you, as long as I can draw breath. And…and I know I need some purpose again, helping other. I'd…I'd like to work with you, or at the hospital at least, do whatever it is I need to do to get certified as a nurse in these modern times."

His face split into a huge smile. "Why not tackle a full medical degree itself, while you're at it?" She wasn't sure he was teasing.

" _Two_ Dr. Clarksons? Could Downton handle it? I'm not certain."

"Neither am I, but I certainly could."

He kissed her again, and they went to join the Carsons. It was time to celebrate.

oooOOOooo

The four of them walked into the Lion after dinner at Francis' small but lovely home. Phyllis looked around everywhere, taking it all in. After a summer of considering a visit, she and Joe had, impulsively, decided to join the other pair for a drink.

Then a trio of older couples caught her eye, at a large corner table. Two of them she knew, and they were bidding farewell to the pair she didn't.

"Joe! It's the Carsons. And Dr. Clarkson, and Lady Grey," she exclaimed, thoroughly tickled. "We really _are_ late to the game, aren't we?" She glanced over at Francis and Thomas, who were grinning at each other.

"Well, I'll allow that the Carsons' being here is a bit of surprise, even to me," Thomas' smile broadened. "We've been spotted, by the way. Mrs. Hughes – Carson – is waving us over." The four of them giggled like schoolchildren caught out by a favorite teacher. "The other pair, however…" he trailed off, looked at Francis again.

"Rich regularly serenades us all with off-color Scottish tunes," he answered breezily. "And Izzy, or Lady Grey I suppose, to you lot, has been in here a time or three this summer with the good doctor. Actually…hold that thought. She mayn't be Lady Grey any longer." He laughed at their expressions. Even Thomas raised an eyebrow at him. "Come, all, we're being summoned by Downton's housekeeper, and I know it's best not to keep her waiting."

They all headed over to the corner together. The unfamiliar couple had left, and the others stayed on their feet to greet them. Phyllis was trying to keep up with everything that was going on.

"Good evening, everyone!" Francis boomed, and grinned. Thank goodness for Francis. Everyone liked him, and he was so good at putting everyone at ease. "Mr. and Mrs. Carson, what a pleasure to see you again. And Dr. Clarkson! Might I congratulate you, sir!" He reached over and shook the other man's hand, who took it warmly, laughing.

"Did you take out an ad, then, Richard?" Isobel asked dryly. Elsie Carson laughed, whilst her husband and Joe seemed perplexed.

"Congratulations for what?" Thomas interjected.

"I got married today, Mr. Barrow, which Mr. Holmes knew, as he made this suit for this very occasion," Richard Clarkson looked as pleased as anyone Phyllis had ever seen. Then it suddenly dawned on her, what he'd just said. And her eyes slid over to Isobel, who most certainly was no longer Lady Grey.

"You never did, Doctor! To whom?" Joe. Oh, Joe. She caught Thomas' eyes, which he rolled, but not in an unkind way, towards her husband.

"To _me,_ Mr. Molesley," Isobel Clarkson replied, delighted at revealing the news. "And I would be delighted if you all joined us for a celebratory drink."

Everyone agreed heartily, and they arranged themselves cozily around the table. She found herself next to Charles Carson, who was staring at her intently.

"Mrs. Molesley," he leaned over to be heard. "I'd been hoping to find the time to say something to you in the past week or so, though I can safely say, this wasn't the time or place I'd had in my mind." She smiled and waited.

"I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, Mrs. Molesley," he started, and then surprised her: he reached out and placed his large, shaking hand over her much smaller one. She grinned up at him, this formal bear of a man, who was a rule-following traditionalist to the last, but who, somehow, fathered them all at the big house without many of them really noticing, with his steady, stoic, strict but fair ways.

"You are so very welcome, Mr. Carson," she began. "It was such a lovely idea of Mrs. Carson's." The both turned to gaze at the woman in question, who was deep in conversation with Thomas and Francis. She caught them looking and tipped them a mischievous wave. She continued. "It was such a lovely idea, and this is going to sound mad – but I miss it, your tapestry, your family tree. I miss it so much, I've started my own, _our_ own, Mr. Molesley's and mine."

"Have you indeed? I think that's a fine idea," Downton's former butler took a sip of his wine, and she saw tears, just shimmering, in his eyes. "And your family tree, Mrs. Molesley, as inspired by mine, created by that wife of mine there, won't be terribly different, in many ways, from each other, will they?"

"No, not very much at all, Mr. Carson," she replied, and they both smiled at the group gathered around the large table.

oooOOOooo

"What do you suppose they're on about, Mrs. Carson, your husband and Phyllis? They look rather maudlin over there, don't they? Do you think they're about to burst into song?" Francis teased, his leg pressing familiarly against Thomas' under the table, as he leaned conspiratorially over towards Elsie.

"Your cheek, Mr. Holmes, is only outmatched by your charm, luckily for you," she retorted.

"Won't you call me Francis, Mrs. Carson?" He looked from Downton's housekeeper to Thomas, then back again. "Or does that complicate things? It would be rather odd, I suppose, for you to use my given name and bash on calling Thomas 'Mr. Barrow.'"

Elsie Carson's laughter made everyone at the table pause momentarily, including her husband, who looked at her with such tenderness Thomas could forgive the man's rigidity in other matters. _But he's sitting here, with you, at this table. He greeted your lover with friendliness, even familiarity. It's time to move forward, completely. Everyone seems to be doing so, and you're no exception._

"It wouldn't turn a hair on her, Francis, as Mrs. Hu – Carson – called me 'Thomas' for many years whilst we worked together at Downton. And she's welcome to, again, at her discretion," he caught the older woman's eye, who was gazing at him warmly.

"Aye, Thomas, I do believe I've a few brain cells rattling around upstairs, at least enough to remember when 'tis appropriate to call you by your Christian name. I do believe in this fine establishment is one of those places." She glanced around, curious and pleased. It was getting later, and the crowd was becoming more varied as the evening turned into night.

"How do you like it, then, Mrs. Hughes?" He called her the name that felt right to _him,_ no disrespect to her husband.

"I like it quite a lot, Mr. Barrow," she replied. "As I am sure the pair of you do, as you met here, did you not?"

"That we did, Mrs. Carson," Francis responded, shooting him a warm look. "I will be forever grateful to my meddlesome, match-making junior tailor, to the end of my days."

"I hate to do so, but I believe it's likely time for Mr. Carson and I to retire for the evening," she took the last, hearty swig of her wine, and Thomas was surprised to feel regret at her announcement. "And, Francis, you were wondering what Charlie and Mrs. Molesley were discussing earlier. I believe I have a feeling…."

She trailed off, explaining to Francis in detail the project Thomas had seen, half-finished, on the train to London last month. The beautiful, unexpected tree, with its multitude of fabric leaves. His own branch on it. How it had startled him, warmed him, to be included.

"It sounds extraordinary!" Francis exclaimed. "That Phyllis Molesley, she's certainly one-of-a-kind."

"It _is_ extraordinary, Francis, and so is the seamstress who created it," she rose from her seat at last, grinned down at them. "You'll have to come to dinner one evening, with the Molesleys, when Thomas and I feel we can leave Downton in Mrs. Powell's hands."

Thomas' heart leapt in his chest. Francis gazed up at Elsie Carson, then over at Thomas. His eyes were warm. "I'd be delighted, Mrs. Carson. Simply delighted."

"Well, it's settled then. Leave it to the butler and the housekeeper to sort out. And the former butler," she chuckled. "It will be the most organized dinner you've ever attended, Francis. And you must come, for many reasons, but certainly to see Charlie's tapestry. Because, you see, _you_ are on it." And her eyes slid over to Thomas' with a smile.

"I am, Mrs. Carson?"

"Indeed you are, Francis, as you'll see soon enough. There's a brightly patterned leaf on Thomas' branch, the exact colors of a pocket square you've been missing for a few weeks. Goodnight, gentlemen." And with that, she leaned over, kissed them both, in turn, on their cheeks, and was gone.

Phyllis was suddenly across from them, with the Carsons' departure. "You put Francis on Mr. Carson's tree." Thomas said, rather stupidly, he felt.

She laughed. "I did! Francis, forgive me – you left your handkerchief at ours a few weeks ago and I couldn't help myself. So now you are affixed, forever, for posterity. I hope you don't miss it too much," she concluded.

Francis gazed over at Thomas, squeezed his knee under the table. "A pocket square seems a small price to pay for all I've gained this summer. More than a fair trade, wouldn't you say, Thomas?"

"More than. Worth a hundred pocket squares, a thousand," he grinned at them both.

"It's worth everything," Phyllis sighed. Thomas couldn't disagree.


End file.
